FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.  D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM    TO 


THE    LIBRARY   OF 


PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


vSec 


l%5( 


W      SHAfck*    C.  <      fHUniTh    BOSTON 


SACRED 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


/ 


v> 


WILLIAM    B.    TAPPAN. 


BOSTON: 
BENJAMIN    B.    MUSSEY    AND    CO. 

NO.    29    CORNHILL. 

1848. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846, 
By  WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotyped  and  Printed 

By  Samuel  N.  Dickinson  &  Company, 

52  "Washington  St Boston. 


^—  '?<'**% 


INDEX. 


Page. 

"  A  weary  world ! "  forever  cry, 241 

Almighty  Thou !  although  thy  throne, 83 

"  All 's  Well ! "  the  gangway  sentry  cries, 330 

All  is  right  —  raise  the  signal ! 16 

And  this  was  plucked  by  Friendship's  hand, 264 

And  who  are  they  that  wear  such  name, 216 

And  who  is  he  that 's  seeking, 69 

And  why  should  wisdom  smile  at  this  ? 112 

Arise,  0  Lord !  look  kindly  on  the  deep, 210 

Art  flew  to  bless  the  virgin  world,   46 

Away  to  the  desert  the  Scape- Goat  flies, 124 

Ay,  flap  your  wings,  ill-omened  birds,    318 

Barbarians  of  the  Southern  Sea, 126 

Beautiful  tree .  of  the  towering  stem ! 76 

Behold  where  the  exalted  Son, 245 

Beneath  thy  folds,  O  holy  Cross ! 110 

Benighted  on  the  troublous  main, 201 

Boston !  that  sittest  in  thy  pride, 319 

Bring  forth  the  vessels !  borrow  more, 23 

Buried  once,  the  sleeping  dust, 219 

Burmah's  Apostle !  I  can  style  no  less, 272 

"E7  awful  influence,  only  lent, 302 


(iv) 

Cease,  proud  Britons,  cease  your  boastings, 313 

Child  of  earth  and  heaven,  Repentance, 8 

Childhood,  its  little  grief, 289 

Christian  ship,  of  Turkish  title, 256 

City  of  Penn  !  thy  streets, 296 

Come  out  of  Egypt,  oh  mine  undefiled, 236 

Come,  Mind !  and  break  from  empty  night, 39 

Come  warriors !  to  the  earnest  fray, Ill 

Could  angel  choirs  demand  of  earth, 167 

Darkly  o'er  thee,  Palestine ! 82 

Discoursers  on  the  vocal  string, ■ 195 

Elect  of  God !  and  who  is  he  ? 6 

Fair  as  the  moon  !  celestial  Seal, *.  •     27 

First  Cause !  The  Good !  Almighty  Thou ! 50 

For  conscience  bold,  our  sires  of  old, 81 

Gathered  by  the  hand  of  kindness, • 250 

Given  is  to  earth  its  treasure, 135 

Go,  heal  the  sick !  Go,  raise  the  dead ! 173 

Go,  minister  of  God, 84 

God  bless  the  Puritan, 327 

God  of  Glory !  when  the  portals, 13 

God,  our  God,  his  power  revealing, 55 

God  —  of  earth  the  only  Ruler — 109 

God  of  our  fathers !  while  our  ears, 207 

Hark !  'tis  the  prophet  of  the  skies, 10 

Hast  thou  never  seen, 198 

Heart  and  hymn,  thy  sons  and  daughters, 74 

He  came  to  drink  his  bitter  cup, 64 

He  chose  the  spot,  the  ground  surveyed, 321 

He  journeyed  on  to  Galilee, 161 

"  He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone," 227 

He  ministers  where  busy  men, 243 

He  sought  Moriah's  walls, 209 

He  sought  the  Saviour's  face  to  see, 178 


(v) 

He  traverses  the  fertile  fields, 141 

He  who  bestows  a  useful  book,   271 

He  who  medicines  the  sick, 116 

He  willed  them  lands,  and  tenements,  and  gold, 262 

His  path  is  the  ocean,  he  maketh  his  dwelling, 106 

Holy  be  this,  as  was  the  place, 14 

How  shall  I  cherish  the  desire, 200 

How  sweet,  beneath  the  Cross, 4 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  we  've  burst  the  chain, 291 

I  bring  unto  the  Font  with  holy  feeling, 71 

I  bowed  within  the  house  of  prayer, 105 

I  cannot  doubt  that  Jesus  met, 180 

I  hailed  thy  launching  forth  to  life, 202 

I  knew  thee  once  where  sweeps  Ohio's  tide, 80 

I  learned  submission  by  repeated  blows,    16 

I  praise  not  one  of  woman's  mould, 324 

I  saw  a  man  who  had  sojourned  where, 79 

I  saw  thee  faint,  the  hour  when  came, 206 

I  stand  where  I  have  stood  before, 168 

I  stood  amid  the  place  of  graves, 146 

I  stood  beside  his  dying  bed, 143 

I  stood  in  silence,  and  alone, 268 

I  trod  the  walks  and  velvet  green, 305 

I  thought  not  of  the  inspiration  lent, 317 

I  walk  among  the  plants  and  flowers, 122 

I  walked  in  Portsmouth ;  'twas  the  place, ? 315 

If.  in  that  world  of  spotless  light, 87 

If  this  low  vale  of  strife  and  tears, 54 

I  '11  look  to  thee,  my  Saviour !  when, 131 

Immortal  infamy  is  his, 156 

I'm  glad  that  at  length  the  materials  appearing, 189 

I  've  told  my  story ;  need  my  verse, 220 

In  our  secret  souls  we  know  it, 1 14 

In  the  dew-drop  you  behold, 255 

It  may  be,  from  outbreaking  sin, 94 

It  may  be  that  the  weal  of  nations, 208 

Jerusalem  is  silent  now. 59 


A 


* 


(vi) 

Joy  for  the  Sabbath  day ! 174 

Judea's  plains  in  silence  sleep, 49 

Know  ye  the  earth  on  which  ye  tread, 196 

Let  me  live  till  I  am  old ! 218 

Lieth  here  beneath  her  shroud, 233 

Lift  ye  my  country's  banner  high, 304 

Long  hath  the  crescent's  glittering  sign, 97 

Man  is  wrong  in  his  pursuits, 232 

Man !  who  pitiest  mortal  woe, 162 

Many  ways,  Jehovah,  thou, 222 

Messiah  sawr  within, 119 

'Mid  Traffic's  ceaseless  thunder, 12 

Modest  Beauty  praises  God, 134 

Mother !  little  William  lies, 164 

My  God,  this  hour  doth  thought  invite, 171 

My  heart  took  counsel  with  thy  pious  heart, 159 

Niagara !  the  poetry  of  God, 186 

"  No  man  of  God  shall  tread  this  isle," 225 

No  moon  or  planets  ruled  the  hour, 42 

Now  up !  ye  that  have  interest, 117 

0  Angels !  nearest  to  the  King, 77 

Of  old,  Anacreon  woke  the  song, 294 

O  God !  this  universal  frame, 58 

O  God,  that  I  no  longer  lie, 120 

0  God !  what  clouds  of  glory  rolled, 22 

Oh !  what  a  voice  comes  in  the  stilly  hush, 91 

0  Jesus !  once  on  Galilee, 163 

O  Lord !  at  thy  throne,  a  poor  Israelite  kneeling, 85 

O  Lord,  my  God !  I  would  not  seek, 203 

One  day  in  merry  June,  I,  then  a  lad, 300 

O  parent !  who  thy  watch  art  keeping, 153 

0  Saviour !  wert  thou  now  below, 115 

0  tell  me !  while  the  blessed  ones, 103 

O  Thou !  in  this  dark  world  of  ours, 63 


(  vii ) 

O  Thou  of  Calvary !  Thou  didst  bear, 257 

0  Thou !  that  plcad'st  with  pitying  love, 52 

O  Thou  Unseen,  Almighty  God ! 205 

Over  that  child,  now  sunk  in  shame, 36 

O  why  should  this  poor  world  of  ours, 228 

Rain !  Rain !  from  out  thy  clouds, 298 

Rich  men !  a  voice  of  Pity 's  calling, 11 

Right  glad  was  I,  when  round  me, 183 

Seller  of  purple !  Listener  to  the  word, 155 

Seven  planets  keep  around  the  sun, 123 

Shall  I  be  dumb,  whose  harp  was  slave, 252 

She  had  his  holy  influence  felt, 136 

She  turned  her  from  the  empty  cell, 3 

Some  joy  it  has  been  mine  to  know, 158 

Stand  ye !  on  whom,  in  duty's  path, 99 

Star  of  the  East !  the  Shepherd's  Star  ! 152 

Such  is  the  Good !  go,  thou,  survey  the  Good ! 192 

Sweet  out  of  bitter  God  designed,  237 

Sweet  Heaven !  to  know  thee  holy, 188 

Sweet  Sabbath !  gift  of  heaven,  that  selfish  man, 157 

Teacher !  at  the  feet  of  love, 266 

That  Look  !  when  eye  met  eye  —  what  power, 78 

That  the  marrow  and  the  pith, 286 

That  tossing  vessel's  silver  wake, 47 

The  angel  ranks  that  gird  the  throne, 53 

The  angels'  song  that  happy  night, 73 

The  Church  is  graven  on  thy  hands, 33 

The  Church  is  slumbering.     She  that  once  awoke, 60 

The  heart  to  heart,  the  face  to  face, 41 

The  judgment  day !  the  judgment  day  ! 107 

The  mitre  rims  a  brow 17 

The  Plague !  the  Plague !  bring  out  your  dead, 299 

The  ransomed  spirit  to  her  home, •  •  •  44 

The  seal  of  the  covenant  given, 176 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Cross, 38 

The  starry  angels  break  the  gloom, 20 


( viii ) 

There  is  an  hour  of  hallowed  peace, 249 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest, 1 

The  Widow's  Mite !  who  ever  saw, 101 

They  say  the  goblet's  crowned  with  flowers, 290 

They  tell  of  the  region  of  bliss. 170 

They've  reared  the  Organ.    He  whose  fond  desire, 197 

This  book,  my  Mother !  was  designed  for  thee, 331 

This  Earth,  to  the  thorn  and  the  briar  now  given, 258 

This  is  thy  grave.    I  'd  rather  sleep, 312 

Thou  who  look'st  to  Caesar's  seat, 24 

Though  pouting  out  with  youth  and  health, 98 

Thy  blessing,  gracious  Providence, 261 

Thy  people  come  with  one  accord, 34 

Tiberias  battles  with  the  storm, 211 

*T  is  good  for  us  to  rest  to-day, 259 

'Tis  Midnight  —  and  on  Olive's  brow, 273 

'T  is  pleasant  in  the  courts  of  God, 270 

'T  is  so !  He  that  made  the  good  creature  for  use, 280 

JT  is  to  the  East  the  Hebrew  bends, 62 

'T  is  well  with  her  who  on  that  bed, 145 

To  gorgeous  burial  goes  the  monarch, 193 

To  him,  at  strife  with  conscience,  sleep, 239 

Tomato !  thou  art  like  the  mind, 277 

To  saved  ones  that  dwell  in  the  bowers  of  heaven, 140 

To  see,  my  Lord,  thy  body  thus, 177 

True  it  is,  0  weary  toiler, 215 

Two  partners  traded  in  that  busy  town, 310 

Union  prevails  in  heaven,  from  Him, 56 

Vineyard  of  the  Lord !  thy  treasures, 160 

"Wait  thou  on  Jehovah !  instructively  cries, 88 

Wake !  isles  of  the  South,  your  redemption  is  near, 2 

We  bear  along  our  toilsome  way, 67 

Weep  not  when  sad  distress  is  nigh, 51 

We  garnish  the  grave  of  the  chief, 307 

We  give  Thee  not  a  shrine  of  gold, 260 

Well,  now  I  have  bent  this  sapling  right, 311 


(ix) 


We  may  to  our  companion  go,   230 

We  sadly  seek  the  waiting  tomb, 45 

"We  've  heard  that  round  the  wine-cup?s  brim, 293 

"We  wander  in  a  thorny  maze, 48 

What  a  spiritual  expression, 72 

"What  a  sweet  silence  lingers  on  thy  hills, 23 

"What,  on  thy  boundless  path  of  foam, 30 

"Whene'er  long  night  the  bursting  dawn, 108 

"When  my  spirit  leaves  the  clay, 92 

"When  the  great  captains  and  the  mighty  men, 100 

"When  sorrow  casts  its  shade  around, 61 

"Where  warrior  feet  once  pressed  the  soil, 57 

"Where  Whitefield  sleeps,  remembered,  in  the  dust, 283 

"While  the  solemn  note  of  Time, 151 

"Who  cares  for  Jack  ?  not  one !  not  one ! 102 

"Who  seeks  her  Lord  in  glorious  guise, 148 

"Who  shall,  with  blessing,  lift  abroad, • 187 

"Why,  on  darkness  of  the  night, 90 

"Will  he  never  return  ?  —  will  the  Jew, 212 

Wine  of  Cyprus,  not  for  me, 149 

Would  I  were  with  them !  they  are  free, 32 

Wouldst  thou  be  cleansed  from  every  taint, 132 

Yea,  thou  forbearest,  Lord, 129 


This  volume  is  the  second  of  a  series,  comprising 
my  revised  Poems;  of  which,  "Poetry  of  the 
Heart,"  published  a  year  since,  is  the  first. 


SACRED   POEMS. 


THERE  IS  AN  HOUR  OF  PEACEFUL  REST,  i 
Set  to  Music  by  A.  P.  Heinrich. 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest 
To  mourning  wanderers  given  ; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distressed  — 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast  — 
'T  is  found  alone  in  Heaven. 

There  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

Far  from  these  shades  of  even  — 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 
And  find  repose  in  Heaven. 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls, 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven ; 
When  tossed  on  life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise,  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear — 'tis  Heaven. 

There  Faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

To  brighter  prospects  given" — 
And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 
And  all  serene  in  Heaven. 


(2) 

There  fragrant  flowers  immortal  bloom, 

And  joys  supreme  are  given ;  ; 
There  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom'-*- 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 
Appears  the  dawn  of  Heaven. 


WAKE,  ISLES  OF  THE  SOUTH! 

Written  November,  1819,  on  occasion  of  the  departure  from  the  United 
States  of  the  first  Missionary  band  for  the  Sandwich  Islands. 

Wake,  Isles  of  the  South !  your  redemption  is  near; 

No  longer  repose  on  the  borders  of  gloom ; 
The  Strength  of  His  chosen  in  love  will  appear, 

And  light  shall  arise  on  the  verge  of  the  tomb. 

The  billows  that  gird  ye,  the  wild  waves  that  roar, 
The  zephyrs  that  play  when  the  ocean-storms  cease, 

Shall  bear  the  rich  freight  to  your  desolate  shore, 
Shall  waft  the  glad  tidings  of  pardon  and  peace. 

On  the  Islands  that  sit  in  the  regions  of  night, 
The  lands  of  despair,  to  oblivion  a  prey, 

The  Morning  will  open  with  healing  and  light, 
The  glad  Star  of  Bethlehem  will  usher  the  Day. 

The  altar  and  idol  in  dust  overthrown, 

The  incense  forbade  that  was  offered  in  blood, 

The  Priest  of  Melchizedec  there  shall  atone, 
And  the  shrines  of  Hawaii  be  sacred  to  God ! 


(3) 

The  heathen  will  hasten  to  welcome  the  time 
The  day-spring  the  prophet  in  vision  once  saw, 

When  the  beams  of  Messiah  shall  gladden  each  clime, 
And  the  Isles  of  the  Ocean  shall  wait  for  his  law. 

And  thou,  Obookiah  !  now  sainted  above, 

"Wilt  rejoice  as  the  heralds  their  mission  disclose ; 

And  the  prayer  will  be  heard,  that  the  land  thou  didst  love 
May  blossom  as  Sharon,  and  bud  as  the  Rose ! 


"  MARY  !  —  RABBONI !  » 
John  xx.  16. 

She  turned  her  from  the  empty  cell, 

Where  late  the  Prince  of  Glory  lay ; 
A  shadow  on  her  spirit  fell,  — 
Her  Lord  was  borne  away. 
"If  thou  hast  spoiled  the  tomb, 
And  for  its  new-born  light 
Hast  left  the  pall  of  ancient  gloom, 
0  wanderer  of  the  night  — 
Tell  me!" 

He  looked  into  her  earnest  eyes, 

Where  lately  shone  Hope's  dazzling  dew ; 
Her  lips,  of  the  carnation  dyes, 

Now  of  the  lily's  hue, 
He  saw  were  quivering  with  dismay. 

One  word  could  light  those  eyes  again, 
And  banish  every  grief  away; 


© 

(4) 

One  word  bring  back  the  lips'  sweet  red, 
One  word  restore  the  dead, 

And  pleasure  substitute  for  pain ; 
'T  was  music  when  he  spake  it : 
"  Mary  ! " 

She  turned  herself —  and  from  that  face 

Of  beauty  every  care  was  fled, 

And  in  its  stead 
Was  much  of  grace, 

And  something  meekly  proud. 

As  look  our  skies,  when  midnight's  cloud 
Is  chased,  and  they  are  overspread 

With  morning's  early  blush,  so  she, 

The  spirit  of  young  Piety, 
Divinely  looked,  when  answering 
"  Rabboni  ! " 


THE  WAY. 

How  sweet,  beneath  the  Cross, 
At  once,  subdued,  to  lie  ; 

Soon  as  I  feel  my  loss, 
To  find  my  gain  is  nigh ; 

Without  the  prelude  of  alarms, 

To  fall  into  my  Saviour's  arms. 

How  blest,  impelled  by  gales 
Of  Love,  the  port  to  win ; 


i 


(5) 

Never  to  furl  the  sails, 

Till  safely  moored  within. 
To  anchor  in  the  sheltered  bay, 
Without  one  tempest  by  the  way ! 

A  few  reach  Canaan's  land, 

Nor  meet  a  single  blast ; 
They  sing  with  Victory's  band, 

But  not  of  perils  past. 
No  lions  on  their  pathway  wait, 
No  "  slough,"  hard  by  the  "  wicket  gate." 

0,  such  was  not  my  course, 

When  groping  for  the  light ; 
Waves  moaned  and  winds  were  hoarse, 

And  bitter  was  the  night. 
Across  a  gulf  my  vessel  flew, 
To  halcyon  Hope  I  bade  adieu. 

Storms  rose  and  swept  the  deck, 

The  flying  sails  were  rent ; 
And  I,  a  helpless  wreck, 

O'er  dreadful  seas  was  sent; 
A  feather  by  the  tempest  tost,  — 
O,  no  !  —  a  spirit  well  nigh  lost. 

I  plucked  a  way-side  staff,  — 

'Twas  but  a  broken  reed; 
I  rallied  song  and  laugh,  — 

They  failed  me  at  my  need. 
Ambition,  Pleasure,  Riches,  Care ;  — 
They  all  resigned  me  to  Despair. 


1* 


(6) 

Till,  to  rny  utmost  need, 

The  Heavenly  Leader  came  ; 
I  knew  him  —  for  my  deed 

Had  put  him,  once,  to  shame. 
What  said  He  ?  —  to  my  passions,  "  Cease ! " 
And  straight  my  troubled  soul  had  peace. 

Methinks,  my  final  song,  — 

Final,  yet  ending  never,  — 
Will  cheerful  praise  prolong, 

To  my  dear  Lord  forever  : 
Who,  when  I  such  hard  passage  trod, 
My  feet  with  full  deliverance  shod. 


THE  ELECT. 

QUESTION. 

Elect  of  God  !  and  who  is  he  ? 

What  path  by  him  is  trod, 
Shut  up  to  few,  to  all  men  free, 

Where  throng  the  Elect  of  God  ? 
Unriddle  ye  the  maze,  who  can ; 

The  mystery  explore 
For  me,  a  weary,  wildered  man, 

Who  longs  to  find  the  door. 


Elect  of  God !  —  he  who  repents  ; 
Reforms,  without,  within ; 


(<) 

Who  loathes  all  evil  thoughts,  intents, 

And  every  darling  sin  ; 
Hating  his  lusts  and  loving  Christ, 

He  unawares  hath  trod 
The  happy  path  to  peace  unpriced ; 

He  is  Elect  of  God. 

QUESTION. 

But  what,  if  wandering  far  from  home, 

A  beggar  in  his  woe, 
He  chooses,  though  rebuked,  to  roam 

As  rebels  love  to  go ; 
What  if  sin-wrecked  and  idly  tost 

By  every  wind  and  wave, 
He  joins  the  innumerable  lost 

Whose  voyage  is  to  the  grave  ? 


Still,  if  he  turns,  with  suppliant  knee  — 

Though  viler  never  trod 
This  earth  —  by  Him  who  stained  the  tree, 

That  Man's  Elect  of  God ! 
And  God  will  find  him,  though  he  dwell 

Where  darkness  hath  its  seat,  — 
Will  reach  him,  though  the  waves  of  hell 

Were  surging  at  his  feet. 

QUESTION. 

Yet  what,  if,  having  tasted  bliss 

Unspeakable,  he  goes 
Away  from  Christ,  and  with  a  kiss 

Betrays  him  to  his  foes  ? 


(8) 

Is  he,  who  takes  the  Bread  and  Wine, 

And  takes  the  price  of  blood, 
Yea,  gloats  upon  that  silver's  shine, 

Indeed,  Elect  of  God  ? 

ANSWER. 

Thou  art  the  man  I  —  what  hast  thou  done  ! 

Say,  wretch,  for  which  of  all 
His  gifts,  thy  treason,  that  hath  won 

For  thee  such  dreadful  fall  ? 
Yet  turn  thee  !  turn  thee  !  Wondrous  Love, 

Though  thou  the  depths  hast  trod, 
If  thou  repent,  will  lift  above 

Thy  sin,  the  Elect  of  God. 


KEPENTANCE. 


Child  of  earth  and  heaven,  Repentance ! 

Of  our  solemn  joys  a  part, 
Riddle  to  the  rebel  bosom, 

Solved  by  every  lowly  heart,  — 

Thou,  the  moment  I  beheld  thee, 

Wast  ajlend  to  my  despair ; 
Presently,  in  clearer  vision, 

Wast  a  Seraph,  passing  fair. 

Then  I  loved  thee,  then  embraced  thee, 
Then  I  tasted  bliss  divine ; 


L 


=© 


(9) 

Talk  they  of  superior  pleasures  ? 
Angels  might  have  envied  mine. 

Happy  angels,  with  their  harpings, 
Standing  on  the  crystal  floor, 

Never  knew  his  blessed  sorrow, 
Who,  forgiven,  loves  the  more. 

Darkened  Earth,  a  wandering  planet 
From  its  Centre  and  its  Sun, 

Has  a  joy  obedient  Heaven, 
Shining  Heaven,  never  won. 

Hand  in  hand  with  me,  Repentance, 
Close  companion,  since  has  trod ; 

Thus  —  till  on  me  gleam  the  turrets, 
And  the  battlements  of  God  : 

Thus  —  to  Jordan's  swelling  river, 
Weeping,  singing  to  the  gate  ; 

Part  we  then,  and  part  forever, 
Where  the  steeds  and  chariot  wait, 

God  forgive  the  tear  I  render  ! 

God  account  it  not  a  sin 
If  a  thought  of  sweet  Repentance 

Steals  to  Heaven  and  enters  in! 


(10) 


REDEMPTION. 
Arise,  shine,  for  thy  light  is  come.  —  Isa.  lx.  1. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  prophet  of  the  skies 
Proclaims  Redemption  near ; 

The  night  of  death  and  bondage  flies, 
The  dawning  tints  appear. 

Zion  from  deepest  shades  of  gloom 

Awakes  to  glorious  day ; 
Her  desert-wastes  with  verdure  bloom, 

Her  shadows  flee  away. 

To  heal  her  wounds,  her  night  dispel, 
The  heralds*  cross  the  main ; 

On  Calvary's  awful  brow,  they  tell 
That  Jesus  lives  again. 

From  Salem's  towers  the  Islam  sign 

With  holy  zeal  is  hurled, 
And  there  Immanuel's  symbols  shine, 

His  banner  is  unfurled. 

The  gladdening  news  conveyed  afar, 

Remotest  nations  hear ; 
To  welcome  Judah's  rising  star, 

The  ransomed  tribes  appear. 

Again  in  Bethlehem  swells  the  song, 

The  choral  breaks  again  ; 
While  Jordan's  shores  the  strains  prolong, 

"  Good  will  and  peace  to  men ! " 

*  Missionaries  to  Palestine. 


(11) 


HYMN, 

Written  for  the  Twelfth  Anniversary  of  the  Children's  Friend  Society, 
Boston :  Dec.  7,  1845. 

Rich  men  !  a  voice  of  Pity 's  calling 

From  downy  beds  and  gilded  domes ; 
Hear  it !  in  blessings  round  you  falling, 

In  sumptuous  ease  and  gorgeous  homes  ; 
Telling  of  limbs  that  Penury  crushes, 

Of  minds,  diseased  without  a  cure ; 
Speaking  of  eyes  whence  sorrow  gushes, 

Of  cheerless  hearths  and  haunts  impure. 

Parents !  a  voice  of  Love  is  stealing 

From  those  dear  shouts  of  infant  glee  ; 
Tender  its  tones,  to  you  appealing, 

u  By  Him  who  slept  on  Mary's  knee  !  " 
Asking,  for  little  wanderers,  driven, 

—  As  He  once  was  on  Misery's  wave  — 
That  now  to  them  shall  Hope  be  given, 

"With  hearts  to  shield,  and  hands  to  save. 

Hark  !  to  the  prayer  your  own  sweet  Childhood 

Sends  from  the  distant  Past  for  these  ! 
Lifnng  their  hands  — that  home  and  wildwood  — 

Those  walks  and  old  familiar  trees;  — 
Yon  hear !  you  hear  !  and  still  reclining 

On  blessings,  radiant  from  above, 
Will  show,  by  deeds,  the  light  that 's  shining 

Within  you,  is  the  light  of  Love ! 


-~o 


(12) 


MISSIONARIES 

GOING   OUT  IN  THE   BARK  MALABAR. 

'Mid  Traffic's  ceaseless  thunder, 

'Mid  Politics'  rude  din, 
'Mid  Pleasure's  disappointing  toil, 

'Mid  crowds  that  worship  Sin, 
A  little  band  of  travellers 

Unmoor,  to-day,  their  bark  ;  — 
Eeligion  tracking  half  the  globe 

In  her  unnoticed  ark. 

A  little  band,  unfurling 

Their  canvass  to  the  wind ; 
Their  homesteads  and  their  native  land 

Exchanging  for  the  Ind. 
Their  eyes  the  last  look  seizing,  — 

Lip  pressed  to  quivering  lip, 
Imparting,  taking  worlds  of  love  — 

Farewell,  thou  blessed  Ship ! 

They  lodged  within  our  city, 

Its  proud  ones  knew  them  not, 
Nor  dreamed  on  those  devoted  men 

Was  laid  a  glorious  lot ; 
Nor  that  those  meek-eyed  women, 

Who  counted  diamonds  dross, 
In  their  transparent  loveliness 

Were  jewels  of  the  Cross. 


©= 


(13) 

Unceasing  Traffic  thunders, 

Eude  Politics  is  loud, 
And  Pleasure  disappoints  the  heart, 

And  Sin  allures  the  crowd. 
They  perish  —  but  the  labors 

Of  these  will  Mercy  own, 
While  stand  the  palaces  of  God, 

While  Jesus  fills  a  throne. 


HYMN, 

Written  for  the  Opening  of  the  Xew  Sailors'  Home,  Boston,  Nov.  3, 1845. 

God  of  Glory !  when  the  portals 

Of  thy  grace  were  lifted  up, 
And  to  bring  in  lost  immortals 

Jesus  drank  the  dreadful  cup, 
He,  in  paths  of  constant  sorrow, 

Wearily  was  seen  to  roam ; 
He,  the  Builder,  stooped  to  borrow, 

For  his  earthly  need,  a  Home. 

We  would  give,  from  bosoms  lowly, 

Thanks  that  ice  possess  an  ark 
Lit  within  by  Love  that  'a  holy, 

When  without  the  world  is  dark ; 
Where  thy  bounty,  care  dispelling, 

—  Be  it  hut  or  lordly  dome  — 
Gilds  the  spot  we  make  our  dwelling 

With  the  nameless  charms  of  Home. 


(14) 

God  of  Goodness  !  we,  to  praise  Thee, 

For  thy  works  below,  above, 
Do,  in  joyful  offering,  raise  thee 

This,  our  monument  of  love. 
To  the  Sailor,  to  Jehovah, 

To  the  friendless,  forced  to  roam, 
Holy  Ghost,  and  Son  that 's  over, 

Kingdoms,  Powers,  we  give  this  Home. 

God  of  Pity !  that  in  gladness 

Ocean's  wanderer  here  may  rest ; 
God  of  Bethel !  that  in  sadness 

He  may  be  in  Jesus  blest. 
Pass,  0  Earth,  as  clouds  of  even 

Flit  athwart  the  azure  dome ! 
Even  then,  to  such  is  given 

Rest  in  an  eternal  Home. 


WORSHIP. 


Holy  be  this,  as  was  the  place 

To  him,  of  Padan-aram  known, 
When  Abraham's  God  revealed  his  face, 

And  caught  the  pilgrim  to  the  throne. 
Oh!  how  transporting  was  the  glow 

That  thrilled  his  bosom,  mixed  with  fear, 
"  Lo  !  the  Eternal  walks  below  — 

The  Highest  tabernacles  here  !  " 


(15) 

Be  ours,  when  faith  and  hope  grow  dim, 

The  glories  that  the  Patriarch  saw ; 
And  when  we  faint,  may  we,  like  him, 

Fresh  vigor  from  the  vision  draw. 
Heaven's  lightning  hovered  o'er  his  head, 

And  flashed  new  splendors  on  his  view,  - 
Break  forth,  thou  Sun!  and  freely  shed 

Glad  rays  upon  our  Bethel  too. 

'T  is  ours  to  sojourn  in  a  waste 

Barren  and  cold  as  Shinar's  ground ; 
No  fruits  of  Eschol  charm  the  taste, 

No  streams  of  Meribah  are  found ; 
But  Thou  canst  bid  the  desert  bud 

With  more  than  Sharon's  rich  display, 
And  Thou  canst  bid  the  cooling  flood 

Gush  from  the  Rock  and  cheer  the  way. 

"We  tread  the  path  thy  people  trod, 

Alternate  sunshine,  bitter  tears ; 
Go  Thou  before,  and  with  thy  rod 

Divide  the  Jordan  of  our  fears. 
Be  ours  the  song  of  triumph  given,  — 

Angelic  themes  to  lips  of  clay,  — 
And  ours  the  holy  harp  of  heaven, 

Whose  strain  dissolves  the  soul  away. 


(16) 


THE  SEVERE  AND  SWEET  PROCESS. 

"  Cjesar  Malan  says,  that  his  conversion  to  the  Lord  Jesus  might  be 
compared  to  what  a  child  experiences,  when  his  mother  awakes  him 
with  a  kiss.'*  —  Wanderings  of  a  Pilgrim. 

I  learned  submission  by  repeated  blows. 

The  Spirit's  hammer  broke  my  stubborn  heart, 

Driving  its  adamantine  core  apart ;  — 
How  needed,  He  who  smote  me  only  knows ! 
And  now,  when  tampering  with  my  devilish  foes, 

I  try  to  slip  His  service,  comes  the  stroke, 

And  beats  me  back  again  to  Mercy's  yoke. 
Thou,  when  thou  saw'st  the  crimson  tide  that  flows 

Down  Calvary,  wast  in  pleasing  slumber  bound, 
Dreaming  of  quick  obedience,  and  how  sweet 

To  yield  at  once  !  —  how  ravishing  the  bliss  ! 

And  so  in  holy  likeness  thou  wast  found, 
Waking,  all  satisfied,  at  Jesus'  feet,  — 

As  wakes  a  babe  with  the  fond  mother's  kiss. 


ALL  IS  RIGHT  — RAISE   THE   SIGNAL. 

11  With  the  breaking  of  day,  her  spirit  fled  to  the  world  of  light.  A  little 
while  before,  with  almost  the  last  powers  of  utterance,  she  exclaimed,  ad- 
dressing one  of  her  brothers,  in  words  which  rose  to  almost  a  sublimity  of 
triumph,  "  All  is  right,  H ,  all  is  right  —  raise  the  signal !  " 

All  is  right  —  raise  the  signal ! 

Yield  thee,  unreluctant  breath ; 
What  remains  ?  all  is  finished ; 

Work  thy  will  with  me,  0  Death ! 


All  is  right  that  God  has  given  ; 

Only  wrong  what  I  have  done  ;  — 
Raise  the  signal !  I  'm  accepted, 

So  are  all  that  trust  His  Son  ! 

All  is  right  that  God  has  taken, 
Though  my  spirit  did  rebel ; 

Bless  the  Lord  !  his  fiery  furnace 
Purifies  the  spirit  well. 

Hear  me  groaning,  panting,  crying ; 

See  me  on  this  rack  recline ; 
In  my  exit  doubly  dying, 

With  a  double  victory  mine ! 

Call  it  suffering  ?  yes  !  the  river 
Foams  along  in  deep  midnight ; 

Call  it  terror  ?  no  !  a  finger 

Leads  me  on  with  threads  of  light. 

Over,  over,  almost  over  ;  — 
Is  this  Heaven  wrapping  me  ? 

All  is  right  —  raise  the  signal ! 
Jesus !  conquer  I  through  Thee  ! 


THE    BISHOP 
11  The  Bishop  of  your  Souls" —  I  Peter,  2:  25. 

The  mitre  rims  a  brow, 
Once  pierced  by  thorns,  Oh  Church  !  for  thee ; 

2* 


(18) 

And  if  that  Sufferer  is  "  no  Bishop,"  thou 
A  "  Church  "  canst  never  be. 

His  title,  Very  God  ; 
His  wondrous  office  to  renew, 

By  toil  and  tears,  and  groans  and  blood, 
An  empire,  all  untrue. 

His  title,  Very  Man  ; 
In  human  flesh  to  walk  below, 

And,  in  fulfilment  of  Redemption's  plan, 
To  exhaust  the  cup  of  human  woe. 

"  His  birth  was  on  this  wise." 
When  bashful  Night  had  melted  into  Morn, 

And  where  o'er  Bethlehem  arched  the  Syrian  skies, 
Mortals  were  told,  "  the  Christ  is  born." 

For  psaltery  was  there, 

And  all  the  melody  of  heaven, 
And  strings  and  voices  in  mid  air, 

Telling,  "  The  Christ  is  given." 

"  Glory!    Glory!   Glory! 
Good  will  has  come  to  Earth  ; 

Glory  !    Glory  !    Glory  ! 
Peace  is  born  at  Jesus'  birth  !  " 

He  from  the  manger  came, 
In  his  simplicity  rebuking  kings, 

His  looks  were  love,  his  words  were  flame; 
To  friends  what  love !  to  foes  what  fiery  stings ! 


(19) 

Hungered,  athirst  and  faint, 
Thy  Bishop  by  the  poor  was  fed ; 

Shunned,  as  polluted  by  the  leper's  taint, 
Where  should  he  lay  his  head  ? 

Unmitred  by  the  maniac  crew, 
Uncrowned,  unhonored,  and  beneath  the  ban ; 
Scourged  by  the  Roman ;  crucified  by  Jew  ; 
"  Behold  the  Man  !  " 

The  Murdered  lives ! 
The  Buried  triumphs  over  death  and  hell ! 

"  The  Man  of  Sorrows  "  wealth  of  blessing  gives, 
Worlds  may  not  buy  nor  sell. 

He  rules  the  Church ; 
He  leads  His  "  little  flock  ! " 

For  the  poor  way-side  wanderer  maketh  search ; 
And  plants  the  feeble  on  a  Rock. 

He  takes  the  Infant  up  ; 
When  He  "confirms,"  whose  faith  is  not  heaven-strong? 

The  pearl  of  bliss  in  His  communion  cup 
Does  not  to  Earth  belong. 

The  Omnipresent  —  He 
Is  Intercessor  at  the  court  above ; 

And  where,  below,  are  gathered  u  two  or  three," 
Hovers  His  wing  of  love ; 

Whether  where  pilgrim  dips 
His  parched  mouth  in  Oriental  streams  ; 

Or  where  on  sailor,  worshipping  midships, 
Forgiveness  beams ; 


(20) 

"Whether  in  log-house,  hid 
By  the  deep  foliage  of  the  western  wild ; 

Or  where  the  city  spires  do  not  forbid 
To  enter  Poverty's  sad  child. 

Come  !  thou  of  England's  creed,     - 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  regal  power ; 

Come  !  thou,  the  exiled  one  of  prayer  and  need, 
Cradled  in  trial's  hour ; 

Churchman!  and  Puritan! 
Seeking  alike  His  face  ; 

Who  in  Hope's  quiet,  or  Sin's  battle-van, 
Perish  without  His  grace  : 

Come  !  at  His  footstool  fall ; 
His  children,  are  ye  not  His  own? 

His  purchased  ?     Oh !  't  is  sweet  to  give  Him  all, 
Who  occupies  the  throne  ! 


THE    HUMILIATION. 
"  And  there  appeared  an  angel  from  heaven,  strengthening  him." 

The  starry  angels  break  the  gloom 

That  wraps  the  silent  Garden  round, 
For  where  its  olive  sheds  perfume, 

The  God  lies  weeping  on  the  ground. 
Prelusive  to  the  mournful  night, 

Whose  shadows  will  His  glory  dim, 
The  great  Creator  bows  His  might, 

A  lowly  angel  strengthens  Him. 


(21) 

Inexplicable,  awful  hour, 

When  Justice  held  the  penal  cup, 
And  God,  the  Maker,  borrowed  power 

To  bear  the  grief  and  drink  it  up  ! 
When  Sin  had  mixed  the  bitter  draught, 

And  Judgment  spiced  it  to  the  brim, 
And  Death,  exulting,  shook  his  shaft, 

The  hour  an  angel  strengthened  Him ! 

Oh  !  blessed  angel !  in  the  choirs 

Of  shining  heaven,  where  art  thou  ? 
Mid  flaming  hosts  and  thundering  lyres, 

Where  dost  thou,  radiant  angel,  bow  ? 
Art  thou  not  nearest  to  the  throne, 

And  swiftest  of  the  cherubim. 
Who,  of  thy  fellows,  didst  alone 

Appear  from  heaven  to  strengthen  Him  ? 

Sweet  wonders  of  the  sacred  Cross ! 

Sweet  mysteries,  big  with  new  delight ! 
What  are  all  joys  to  you  but  dross? 

What  are  all  shades  with  you  but  light  ? 
I  '11  sing  where  sings  the  Christian  crowd, 

I  '11  sing  where  sings  the  Seraphim, 
How  low  for  me  the  Maker  bowed, 

That  e'en  an  angel  strengthened  Him ! 


(22) 


HYMN, 

Written  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Church  of  the  Pilgrimage,  Plymouth, 
Massachusetts;  1S40. 

0  God,  what  clouds  of  glory  rolled 

Around  within  thy  house  of  old! 

To  dedicate  that  house,  what  throngs 

Its  pavement  trod  !  —  what  prayers !  what  songs  ! 

Moriah's  awful  mount  was  there, 
And  thoughts  of  Abraham's  faith  and  prayer 
Came  up  where  Israel's  thousands  knelt, 
Where  God  between  the  cherubs  dwelt. 

Yet  not  less  Glory's  cloud  around 
This  house  is  seen,  and  o'er  this  ground  ; 
Not  less  sweet  thoughts  of  faith  appear, 
Not  less  the  Hebrews'  God  is  here. 

Yon  Bay,  whose  stormy  waters  bore 
The  Child  of  Promise  to  this  shore, 
Yon  Mount,  where  sacrifice  was  made, 
And  where  the  patriarch's  bones  are  laid, 

Are  holy.  —  Thou  that  led'st  thy  flock, 
Our  Pilgrim  Fathers,  to  this  Rock, 
As  thou  wast  then  their  staff  and  rod, 
Be  thou  to-day  the  children's  God. 

On  ground  wet  with  their  frequent  tear, 
Ye  Gates,  that  now  with  joy  we  rear, 
Be  lifted !  —  "  Yet  to  whom  lift  we  ?  " 
Oh!  Trinity!  to  Thee!  to  Thee! 


l 


=fi 


(23) 


NEW  ENGLAND  SABBATH. 

"What  a  sweet  silence  lingers  on  thy  hills, 
Along  thy  rivers  and  fair  vales  to-day, 
New  England !     As  it  every  passion  stills, 
Unholy  thoughts  take  wing  and  flee  away ; 
While  the  glad  passengers  the  influence  feel 
Of  Sabbath  sights  and  sounds,  such  as  them  greet 
When  sloping  upland,  lawn,  and  field  reveal 
The  thronging  yeomanry  with  willing  feet 
Hasting  to  Zion.     Hark !  the  village  bells 
Joyfully  call  each  to  the  other,  telling, 
As  their  rich  music  o'er  the  landscape  swells, 
That  the  Great  King  of  kings  to-day  is  dwelling  ' 
In  temples  made  with  hands.     Oh  haste,  and  bow 
Before  the  Lord,  the  Sovereign  Maker,  now! 


THE  WIDOW'S   OIL. 

*  And  it  came  to  pass,  when  the  vessels  were  full,  that  she  said  unto 
her  son,  *  Bring  me  yet  a  vessel.'  And  he  said  unto  her,  *  There  is  not  a 
vessel  more.'    And  the  oil  stayed."  —  II.  Kings,  iv.  6. 

"  Bring  forth  the  vessels !  borrow  more, 

Of  all  thy  neighbors,  not  a  few  ; 

God,  who  regards  the  widow's  store, 

Her  slender  pittance  will  renew." 

Then  did  the  widow's  heart  rejoice  ; 
No  more  in  penury's  depths  to  toil ; 


(24) 

Those  vessels,  at  the  prophet's  voice, 
She  sees  run  o'er  with  precious  oil. 

"  And  yet  bring  more  ! "     No  more  were  brought, 
And  straight  the  flowing  treasure  stayed 
0  God  !  how  fully  we  are  taught 
That  thus  we  bound  thy  Spirit's  aid. 

For  when  the  Oil  of  Grace,  in  store 
Unmeasured,  flows  for  ready  hearts,  — 

Hearts,  emptied  of  their  pride,  no  more 
Appear,  and  slighted  Grace  departs. 


COLLOQUY. 


HIGH   PRIEST. 


Thou,  who  look'st  to  Caesar's  seat, 
Claiming  to  be  called  a  King  — 
Yet  for  purple,  sceptre,  ring, 
Showest  coarsest  covering, 
Crownless  head  and  naked  feet ; 
Wanderer !  for  sedition  ripe ; 
Poverty's  true  prototype ; 
Monarch  !  with  no  lictors,  guards ; 
Lauded  not  by  courtly  bards ; 
With  no  symbol,  save  a  scrip ; 
With  no  herald,  save  the  lip 
Of  these  stricken  Fishermen ; 
Thou,  whom  stirred  Jerusalem 


(25) 

Sees,  a  prisoner,  forlorn, 
Hither  dragged  in  scorn  ; 
Homeless  one ! 
Thou,  God's  Son  ? 
Thou  claim  the  diadem  ? 
Flouted  by  the  base, 
Spit  upon  the  face, 
Scourged,  a  very  slave, 
Canst  thou  save  ? 
Bound,  at  my  palace  gates, 
Where  ready  Justice  waits 
The  traitor ;  —  thou 
Of  open  brow, 
And  all  unblushing  face, 
Who  canst  our  temple  rase, 
And  in  three  days  each  tower 
Build  again  with  devilish  power, 
Art  thou,  a  wretch  undone, 
Whom  Jew  and  Gentile  shun, 
On  whom  the  thief  hath  trod, 
Indeed,  the  Blessed  Son 
Of  God? 


Yea,  listen,  Priest ! 
Who  countest  me  as  least ; 
Who  dost  the  Judge  assume, 
Exulting  at  my  doom  ; 
Who  see'st  me  thus  uncrowned, 
With  malefactors  bound ; 
Where,  at  thy  palace  gates, 
Stern  Justice  waits 


(26) 

The  traitor.     Now 

Listen  !  for  thou 

Shalt  stand, 

When,  at  the  high  right  hand 

Of  Power,  I  sit,  as  Son, 

My  rebel  kingdom  won  ;  — 

What  time  men  leave  their  shrouds, 

Heaven  lost,  hell  gained  ;  — 

Thyself,  a  trembling  one, 

Myself,  the  Judge,  on  clouds ; 

The  universe  arraigned 

Before  my  righteous  bar, 

While  every  world  that  seemed  a  star 

Shall  crisp  in  flame  ; 

Thou  shalt  behold  my  Name  ! 

On  Him,  of  Bethlehem, 

Mark  the  diadem, 

And  in  the  Nazarene  — 

The  base,  the  mean — 

Shalt  see  revealed 

The  Everlasting  Shield, 

And  Hope  of  Israel !     Yea, 

When  thy  hopes  flee  away, 

Shalt  know,  indeed,  the  Lamb, 

Slain,  vainly,  for  thy  sin  — 

Who  lost  that  thou  might'st  win, 

Is  He,  Son  of  the  Blessed ! 

Who  now,  mid  Roman  wrong  and  Jewish  jest, 

The  cries  of  Hell  and  Death, 

The  High  Priest  answereth  : 

I  AM ! 


(27) 


THE    SEAL. 

"  When  they  were  returned  out  of  the  garden  from  the  bath,  the  inter- 
preter took  them,  and  looked  upon  them,  and  said  unto  them,  '  Fair  as  the 
moon !  *  Then  he  called  for  the  seal,  wherewith  they  used  to  be  sealed 
that  were  washed  in  his  bath.  So  the  seal  was  brought,  and  he  set  his 
mark  upon  them,  that  they  might  be  known  in  the  place,  whither  they 
were  yet  to  go;  and  the  mark  was  set  between  their  eyes.  This  seal 
greatly  added  to  their  beauty,  for  it  was  an  ornament  to  their  faces.  It  also 
added  to  their  gravity,  and  made  their  countenances  more  like  those  of 
angels."  —  The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

"  Fair  as  the  moon ! "  celestial  Seal, 

Oh  for  thy  mark  of  blessing ! 
Meek  ornament  —  I  pant  to  feel 

The  sign  my  brow  impressing. 
To  cleanse  sin's  spot,  and  make  me  fair, 
Beyond  what  beauteous  angels  are, 

Is  thy  strange  power,  Religion ! 

"  Fair  as  the  moon  !  "  —  woe  's  me  !  unclean ! 

Where  folly  in  commotion 
Upcasts  its  mire,  I  long  have  been 

Disporting  in  the  ocean. 
To  thy  dear  Bath,  my  Lord,  I  flee ; 
So  !  bring  the  Seal  —  affix  on  me, 

Eternally,  Religion  ! 

Now  will  I  tell  what  wondrous  charm 

Hath  Mercy's  crystal  waters, 
To  cleanse  the  soul,  the  passions  calm 

Of  misery's  sons  and  daughters. 
Now  will  I  sing  the  blessed  Seal, 
Whose  outward  impress  doth  reveal, 

Throned  in  the  heart  —  Religion  ! 


(28) 

"  Fair  as  the  moon  I "  ingenuous  youth  ! 

Who  long'st  to  lift  the  curtain, 
And  gaze  beyond,  and  know,  for  truth, 

What  now  is  hope  uncertain,  — 
Wouldst  thou,  by  prescience,  ills  forego  ? 
Wear  thou  her  Seal  and  thou  shalt  know 

His  state,  who  finds  Religion ! 

Though  simple,  unsuspecting  thou, 
Yet  constant  perils  find  thee ; 

Yea,  though  a  willing  victim  now, 
Sin's  dreadful  fetters  bind  thee ; 

Thou  hast  no  fear,  thou  know'st  no  pain, 

Nor  see'st  thy  cell,  nor  feel'st  thy  chain  — 
Blind,  lost,  without  Religion ! 

"  Fair  as  the  moon !  "  —  along  this  dark 
Wild  road,  by  perils  driven,  — 

Oh  fragile  woman  !  wear  the  mark, 
That  pitying  Love  hath  given. 

On  dangerous  land,  on  stormy  sea, 

A  certain  panoply  will  be 
The  talisman,  Religion  ! 

How  blest  to-day  avails  thee  not ; 

How  free  life's  book  from  sorrow  — 
The  smile  's  there  now  —  a  tear  will  blot 

That  various  leaf  to-morrow  ! 
Let  light  shine  down  upon  the  page 
Of  youth,  maturity,  and  age  — 

The  only  light,  Religion ! 

'T  is  all  thou  need'st,  thou  village  maid ! 
To  make  thy  beauty  glorious ; 


(29) 

Though  in  unequalled  charms  arrayed, 

And  o'er  all  hearts  victorious,  — 
One  thing  thou  lackest ;  —  part  with  gold, 
Yea,  all,  to  buy,  what  can't  be  sold 
For  worldly  dross,  Religion  ! 

Thou  city's  pride  !  —  the  speaking  face, 
Where  mind  informs  each  feature ; 

The  faultless  form,  and  matchless  grace, 
That  make  the  perfect  creature  — 

These,  that  thou  thus  rejoicest  in, 

Win  earth ;  but  heaven  they  cannot  win ; 
Nought  doth  it,  but  Religion ! 

'T  is  all  thou  need'st  to  make  thy  life 
A  day  of  white -winged  hours  ; 

From  all  its  care-paths  weeding  strife, 
The  thorn  from  all  its  flowers. 

'T  will  soothe  away  the  latent  sigh, 

'T  will  cheer  thee  when  thou  com'st  to  die ; 

Nought  doth  it  but  Religion ! 

©  © 

Yea,  when  before  Him  thou'lt  appear, 

Whose  ways  are  Everlasting, 
Thy  gentle  spirit  need  not  fear, 

But,  crowns  and  praises  casting 
Before  His  feet,  thou  shalt  rejoice, 
And  with  the  ransomed  lift  thy  voice  — 

Who  wear  the  Seal,  Religion  ! 


9 

(30) 


MISSION   SHIPS. 

What,  on  thy  boundless  path  of  foam, 

Oh,  everlasting  Sea ! 
Of  all  that  hail  thee  as  their  home  — 

Hast  thou  most  dear  to  me  ? 

The  merchant  ship,  whose  precious  gums 

And  ambergris  and  gold, 
Are  heaped,  the  price  of  princely  sums, 

Deep  in  her  teeming  hold  — 

The  barque,  that  gaily  seeks  the  breeze 

On  embassy  of  state  ; 
Round  which  the  willing  winds  and  seas 

Obsequious  seem  to  wait  — 

Or  the  proud  bulwark  of  the  deeps, 
"Whose  warring  thunders  play ; 

That  bristling  for  the  combat,  keeps 
Stern  watch  on  thy  highway  ? 

Not  these  !  not  these  !  for  still  they  bear 

Those  of  the  worldly  brow  ; 
And  men  disturbed  with  fruitless  care, 

Press  o'er  thy  billows  now. 

Not  these,  not  these,  0  Deep !  for  they 

Man's  purposes  perform ; 
His  lusts  and  passions  to  obey, 

They  court  thy  frequent  storm. 


(31) 

But  who  are  they  that  as  a  cloud 

And  doves  are  hovering  near ; 
Bearing  unto  the  lost  and  proud 

Their  freight  of  glorious  cheer  ? 

None,  bird-like,  sit  upon  thy  crest 

So  beautiful  as  these  ; 
None,  statelier,  have  ever  prest 

Through  thy  tall  surging  seas. 

The  Mission  Ships!  —  ride  on  thy  waves 

No  treasures  like  to  them  : 
Ocean  !  within  thy  secret  caves 

Is  hidden  no  such  gem. 

For  holy  footsteps  tread  that  deck, 

Of  men  who  bear  away 
Riches,  that  shall  survive  the  wreck 

Of  the  last  dreadful  day. 

And  journeys  o'er  thy  mighty  tide 

A  Mission,  vast  and  high 
From  the  world's  Monarch,  who  has  died, 

To  man  who  may  not  die. 


(32) 


ENTERING  IN  AT  THE  CELESTIAL  GATE. 

"  Now  just  as  the  Gates  were  opened  to  let  in  the  Men,  I  looked  in 
after  them,  and  behold,  the  City  shone  like  the  sun  ;  the  streets  also  were 
paved  with  gold  ;  and  in  them  walked  many  men  with  crowns  upon  their 
heads,  palms  in  their  hands,  and  golden  harps  to  sing  praises  withal." 
"  There  were  also  of  them  that  had  wings ;  and  they  answered  one 
another  without  intermission,  saying,  'Holy,  holy,  holy,  is  the  Lord.* 
And  after  that  they  shut  up  the  Gates ;  which,  when  I  had  seen,  I  wished 
myself  among  them."  —  Pilgrim'' s  Progress. 

Would  I  were  with  them !  —  they  are  free 
From  all  the  cares  they  knew  below, 
And  strangers  to  the  strifes  that  we 
Encounter  in  this  vale  of  woe. 
From  storms  of  sorrow  and  of  pain 
Forever  are  they  garnered  in, 
Secure  from  sad  defilement's  stain, 
The  mildew  and  the  blight  of  sin. 

Would  I  were  with  them !  —  they  embrace 
The  loved  ones,  lost,  long  years  before ; 
What  joy  to  gaze  upon  the  face 
That  never  shall  be  absent  more ! 
There  friends  unite  who  parted  here 
At  Death's  cold  river,  Oh  how  sadly ! 
Forgotten  are  the  sigh  and  tear, 
Their  hearts  are  leaping  —  Oh  how  gladly ! 

Would  I  were  with  them !  —  they  behold 
Their  Saviour,  glorious  and  divine ; 
They  touch  the  cups  of  shining  gold, 
And  in  his  kingdom  drink  new  wine. 


■j 


(33) 

How  flash,  like  gems,  their  brilliant  lyres 
Along  the  sparkling  walls  of  heaven, 
When,  from  his  radiance  catching  fires, 
The  song  of  songs  to  Christ  is  given  ! 

Would  I  were  with  them  !  —  while  without 

Are  sighs  and  weeping,  they,  within, 

For  very  joy  and  gladness  shout, 

And  well  they  may,  who  're  free  from  sin ! 

0  this,  indeed,  is  Heaven  above  ; 

This  fills  the  bliss  of  every  soul  — 

To  grow  in  holiness  and  love, 

As  age  on  age  shall  ceaseless  roll. 


HYMN, 

Written  for  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  an  Ordination. 

The  Church  is  graven  on  Thy  hands, 

Her  walls  before  Thee  shine ; 
0  God,  the  worship  and  the  word 

And  ministry  are  Thine. 
She,  the  Eestorer,  sitteth  where 

Our  ruined  planet  weeps,  — 
When  will  she  sing  the  Jubilee 

That  Earth,  the  ransomed,  keeps  ? 

Thine  only  is  it  to  appoint 
Her  watchmen  for  their  toil ; 

The  unction  shed  upon  their  hearts, 
Upon  their  heads  the  oil. 


(«4) 

Of  those,  anointed,  some  forsake 

Their  post  in  peril's  hour  ; 
And  Death  has  bowed  the  strong  and  tall 

And  crushed  the  manly  flower. 

Yet  these  thy  servant  long  has  led,  — 

The  favored  of  the  flocks  ;  — 
How  kindly  Grace  has  touched  his  heart ! 

How  gently  Time  his  locks  ! 
And  he  has  formed  the  vigorous  mind 

In  Wisdom's  heavenly  mould ; 
And  he  has  watched  the  little  lambs 

That  bleat  about  the  fold. 

And  longer  on  these  noble  walls 

May  he,  0  Lord,  remain  ; 
And  in  the  conflicts  of  the  Cross 

Still  newer  trophies  gain. 
And  Thou,  for  Zion's  thronging  sons 

Her  gates  wilt  open  wide 
And  gifts,  beyond  the  pearls  and  gold 

Shall  deck  the  Church,  the  Bride. 


HYMN, 


For  the  Dedication  of  the  remodelled  Congregational  Church  in  Man- 
chester, Mass.  — 1846. 

Thy  people  come  with  one  accord 
To  bless  thy  Holy  Name  to-day ; 

'T  is  good  to  bless  thy  Name,  0  Lord  ! 
And  better  is  it  to  obey. 


(35) 

For  Thee,  in  Zion,  praises  wait ; 

And  yet  this  graceful  Dome  of  Art 
Thou  passest  by,  to  consecrate 

A  fairer  shrine  —  the  human  heart. 

The  human  heart !  —  the  sigh  for  sin 

Is  Music  to  thy  perfect  ear, 
And  Earth  has  nought  thy  glance  to  win 

Like  that  returning  wanderer's  tear. 

Then  bow  thy  heavens,  Thou  !  as  we 
Draw  nigh,  with  lowly  heart  and  will, 

And  so  the  House  we  give  to  Thee, 

Thy  sounding  praise  shall  grandly  fill ;  — 

That  where  our  dear  old  Fathers  kept 
Their  Sabbaths,  rise  our  true  desires  ; 

And  at  the  Altars  where  they  wept 
We  fan  anew  Religion's  fires  ;  — 

That  to  our  path  of  tears  and  night, 

"Where  weeds  and  thorns  push  by  the  flowers, 
Come  glories  from  the  land  of  light, 

And  sacred  sweets  and  cheerful  hours  ;  — 

That  still  to  Faith's  immortal  eye 

The  Crown  is  glittering  at  the  goal;  — 

The  Crown  so  purchased  !  now  so  nigh  ! 
So  starred  !  —  and  every  star  a  Soul ! 


(36) 


THE   BAPTIZED. 

Over  that  child,  now  sunk  in  shame, 
While  listened  Heaven's  admiring  host- 

In  prayer  was  named  the  blessed  Name 
Of  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

Baptismal  waters  bathed  his  brow, 

In  sign  of  covenant,  who  now 
Is  counted  as  the  lost. 

He  grew  in  youth.     The  father's  prayer 
"Went  up  for  him  to  Mercy's  bower ; 

For  him,  was  seen,  appealing,  there, 
The  mother's  tear  of  holy  power. 

As  parents  should,  they  agonized 

For  promises  to  the  Baptized, 
Performed  in  gracious  hour. 

He  grew  in  manhood.     Yet  no  sign 
Saw  they,  of  renovating  grace ; 

No  token  of  the  life  divine, 

In  word  or  action,  could  they  trace. 

The  quiet  pleasure  of  the  heart, 

Whose  choice  is  still  the  better  part, 
Was  not  upon  his  face. 

Self-willed,  he  left  the  shielding  dome, 
Threw  off  the  yoke,  that  he  might  be 

From  the  restraints  and  tears  of  home, 
Its  prayers  and  kind  monitions,  free. 


(37) 

And  of  bis  wanderings,  the  spot 
None  knew,  few  cared,  whose  chosen  lot 
Was  hopeless  misery. 

He  knows  not,  yet  he  cares  —  the  sire, 

Whose  hair,  since  then,  has  changed  to  gray ; 

She  cares  —  whose  frame,  the  keen  desire 
To  clasp  the  absent,  wastes  away. 

When  storms  are  up,  with  thunders,  wild, 

She  fears  for  her  unsheltered  child, 
And  goes  apart  to  pray. 

Where  's  he,  for  whom  they  agonized  — 

Those  parents  —  in  his  infancy  ? 
Where  's  he  —  the  cherished,  the  Baptized  — 

The  prodigal,  oh  !  where  is  he  ? 
On  Folly's  billows  rudely  tost,  — 
For  this  world,  to  appearance,  lost,  —  . 

For  Heaven,  too,  it  may  be. 

Yet,  "  train  thy  child  in  wisdom's  way," 
Saith  Wisdom,  "  and  when  he  is  old, 

From  that  fair  path  he  shall  not  stray," 
Like  one  that  is  to  Folly  sold. 

That  word  is  truth  !  —  Old  man,  bereft 

Of  thy  first  born,  by  sin,  why  left 
Thy  child  the  Shepherd's  fold? 

Some  lapse  of  thine  is  with  thy  grief 

Blended,  some  error  in  the  link 
That  bound  his  love  to  thee,  is  chief 

Of  woe  that  presses  now ;  yet  think ! 


(38) 

There 's  power  for  thy  lost  son  with  God  — 
Despair  not,  No  !  though  he  has  trod 
The  lava  of  hell's  brink. 

Over  that  child,  now  sunk  in  shame, 

While  listened  Heaven's  admiring  host  — 

Remember  !  once  was  named  the  Name 
Of  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

There  's  hope  for  him  who  wears  such  sign, 

Though  vile  — that  he,  through  grace  divine, 
Forgiven,  shall  love  most. 


SOLDIERS. 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Cross, 
Led  by  the  anointed  Son, 

Know  not  of  shame  or  loss, 

Their  watchword  still  is,  "  On  "  — 

Onward !  till  o'er  a  rebel  world 

Victorious  banners  are  unfurled. 

Whose  flag  looks  o'er  the  field 

Idolatry  hath  trod  ? 
On  waving  folds  revealed, 

Behold  the  Word  of  God; 
Barbaric  kingdoms  gather  round, 
Jehovah !  where  Thy  Name  is  found. 

Who  next  ?  —  a  lamb-like  throng, 

The  joyous  infant  train 
Approach,  and  hail  with  song 

Their  Shepherd's  peaceful  reign ; 


(39) 

And  he  shall  lead,  with  gentle  rule, 
His  chosen  of  the  Sunday  School. 

And  sec  !  a  noble  band, 

Whose  lifted  sheet  of  Heaven 

Displays  from  land  to  land 

The  "  leaves  for  healing  "  given  ; 

Where'er  its  spangled  glories  burn, 

The  nations  from  the  dead  return. 

One  army  of  the  Prince  — 
One  note  their  trumpets  tell, 

And  theirs  the  battle,  since 
Their  Leader  vanquished  hell. 

To  perish,  is  to  win  renown, 

To  fall  —  to  reach  a  sparkling  crown. 

To  arms  !  't  were  glorious  boon 
With  these  stout  hearts  to  die ; 

To  arms  !  for  victory  soon 
Shall  be  the  stirring  cry. 

Yet  every  crown  and  palm  shall  meet, 

Where  victory  dwells,  at  Jesus'  feet 


THE  SCHOOL   OF  THE  PROPHETS. 
Written  for  the  Anniversary  of  a  Theological  Seminary. 

Come  Mind !  and  break  from  empty  night, 
And  take  the  wealth  of  radiance  in ; 
Then  sow  the  glorious  pearls  of  light 
In  every  soil  of  self  and  sin. 


=0 


(40) 

Drop  splendors  o'er  the  lovely  Westy 
And  melt  away  her  veil  of  gloom ; 
Flame  down  where  Orient  lies  unblest, 
And  quench  the  terrors  of  her  tomb. 

His  purpose  hasten  to  fulfil ; 
Co-workers  with  Him  for  mankind  — 
Affection,  intellect  and  will  — 
Be  one  with  God,  exalted  Mind ! 
For  oft  hath  sworn  the  spirit  here 
Her  energies  forever  His  ;  — 
While  dropt  upon  that  oath  the  tear, 
And  looked  these  Shades,  the  witnesses. 

Oh  Shades !  endeared  by  thought  and  prayer, 

To  Nature  and  Religion  true, 

What  memories  turn  from  aching  care, 

And  go  on  pilgrimage  to  you  ! 

What  hearts,  that  sigh  the  load  to  cast, 

What  spirits,  weeping  in  the  strife, 

Ask  counsel  of  your  solemn  Past, 

And  gird  anew  for  future  life  ! 

9T  is  o'er  —  such  moments  breathe  and  die  — 
Those  seek  once  more  stern  Duty's  face, 
And  these,  with  kindling  soul  and  eye, 
Rush  eager  to  the  untried  race. 
Shed  down,  ye  skies  !  ethereal  dew, 
While  angels  stoop  and  smile  from  bliss 
Whose  golden  cycles  never  knew 
The  joy,  the  pain  of  hours  like  this. 


©p 


(41) 

PARTING  HYMN, 

Of  the  Senior  Class,  at  a  Theological  Seminary. 

The  heart  to  heart,  the  face  to  face, 
Answers  within  this  sacred  place ; 
The  exile  has  come  back,  and  finds 
"  The  fellowship  of  kindred  Minds." 

Thanks  !  for  an  Eschol  in  the  waste, 
Whose  clusters  charm  the  eye  and  taste ; 
Thanks  —  while  we  seek  a  world  of  bliss, 
u  Heaven  lies  about"  our  path  in  this. 

Now  send  us,  Lord  !  —  a  willing  band  — 
Like  flames  of  fire,  throughout  the  land ; 
"With  light,  where  Sin's  dark  empires  lie, 
With  life,  where  deathless  millions  die. 

By  us,  let  Sharon's  roses  bless 
The  prairie  and  the  wilderness ; 
By  us,  let  Mercy's  Cross,  unfurled, 
Restore  the  dying  heathen  world. 

At  home,  abroad,  in  simple  love, 
Imparting  doctrines  from  above, 
Still  let  our  glory,  boast  and  pride, 
Be  Jesus,  and  Him  Crucified. 

Let  intellect,  affection,  will, 
Approve  the  words  our  lips  distil ; 


4* 


(42) 

And  in  our  people's  lives  be  shown 
The  pure  reflection  of  our  own. 

Thanks !  for  the  lessons  taught  by  Thee  — 
Thanks !  that  the  Truth  has  made  us  free- 
Thanks !  for  the  privilege  to  teach  — 
Thanks  !  for  the  Gospel  that  we  preach. 


THE  UNANSWEBED  PRAYER. 
"  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me.'* 

No  moon  or  planets  ruled  the  hour 

When  Jesus,  wrapt  in  deeper  shade, 
And  prest  by  an  infernal  Power, 

At  midnight,  in  the  garden  prayed. 
He  asked,  who  never  asked  in  vain, 

—  And  sighs  embalmed  the  heavy  air  — 
That  hence  might  pass  the  Cup  of  Pain,  — 

Yet  His  was  an  Unanswered  Prayer. 

I  go  in  vision  where  He  lies, 

Forsaken  in  His  utmost  need ; 
I  see  His  terrors,  hear  His  cries, 

For  whom  there  's  none  to  intercede. 
The  night  dews  wet  His  burning  brow, 

The  moaning  breezes  lift  His  hair,  — 
Why  crowd  these  horrors  on  Him  now  ? 

And  wherefore  this  Unanswered  Prayer? 


(43) 

It  may  not  pass  —  that  fearful  Cup  — 

Though  mortal  flesh  and  spirit  shrink ; 
Insulted  Law  has  filled  it  up, 

The  world  is  lost,  and  He  must  drink. 
No  pity  for  His  doom  is  shown, 

Who  comes,  unmeasured  wrath  to  bear  ; 
The  quick  cross  lightning  guards  the  throne 

And  wards  off  that  Unanswered  Prayer. 

Oh  !  had  the  Cup  but  passed  from  Him, 

And  Calvary  borne  a  stainless  tree, 
In  heaven  might  range  the  cherubim, 

But  where,  my  spirit,  wouldst  thou  be ! 
To  break  the  cruel  yoke  of  Sin, 

To  raise  from  rags  Creation's  heir, 
The  rebel  to  repentance  win, 

Must  this  remain  Unanswered  Prayer. 

Unanswered  —  that  forever  more 

Should  contrite  cries  the  boon  obtain ; 
That  he  who  knocks  at  Mercy's  door 

In  truth,  might  never  knock  in  vain. 
Then  strengthened  be  thy  bold  intent, 

In  all  thy  need  to  Him  repair, 
And  He  will  teach  thee  to  present 

What  shall  not  be  Unanswered  Prayer ! 


(44) 


THE  RANSOMED   SPIRIT  TO  HER  HOME. 

The  ransomed  spirit  to  her  home  — 

The  clime  of  cloudless  beauty  —  flies ; 
No  more  on  stormy  seas  to  roam, 

She  hails  her  haven  in  the  skies : 
But  cheerless  are  those  heavenly  fields, 
The  cloudless  clime  no  pleasure  yields, 
There  is  no  bliss  in  bowers  above, 
If  thou  art  absent,  Holy  Love ! 

The  cherub  near  the  viewless  throne 

Hath  smote  the  harp  with  trembling  hand ; 

And  One  with  incense-fire  hath  flown 
To  touch  with  flame  the  angel-band ; 

But  tuneless  is  the  quivering  string, 

No  melody  can  Gabriel  bring, 

Mute  are  its  arches,  when  above 

The  harps  of  heaven  wake  not  to  Love ! 

Earth,  sea  and  sky  one  language  speak, 
In  harmony  that  soothes  the  soul ; 

'T  is  heard  when  scarce  the  zephyrs  wake, 
And  when  on  thunders,  thunders  roll : 

That  voice  is  heard,  and  tumults  cease, 

It  whispers  to  the  bosom  peace ; 

Speak,  thou  Inspirer,  from  above, 

And  cheer  our  hearts,  Celestial  Love  ! 


(45) 


FUNEREAL. 

We  sadly  seek  the  waiting  tomb, 

Whose  echoes  mock  our  funeral  tread, 
And  to  its  silence,  damps  and  gloom, 

With  tears,  commit  the  sacred  Dead ; 
Guard  well  your  trust,  ye  narrow  walls ! 

And  give  these  ashes  sweet  repose, 
Till  Jesus  to  the  sleeper  calls, 

Till  rosy  tints  His  Day  disclose. 

One  prayer  for  Grace  !  the  art  to  learn 

How  like  the  Christian  we  may  die, 
Who  journey  up  whence  none  return, 

Who  press  the  sod  where  we  must  lie ;  — 
For  Grace !  that  led  her  steps  aright, 

And  marked  her  pure,  transparent  way, 
Whose  path  was  as  the  shining  light, 

That  shineth  to  the  perfect  day  ;  — 

For  Grace !  that  soothed  her  final  hour, 

And  winged  to  God  her  praising  breath, 
And  stript  from  dust  and  worms  their  power, 

And  triumphed  at  the  gates  of  Death  ;  — 
For  Grace !  that  radiates  the  tomb ; 

Unsought  by  sinners,  to  their  loss, 
Who  see  no  Star  of  Hope  illume 

The  midnight  of  the  wondrous  Cross. 

Resplendent  hope  !  that  smiles  on  tears, 
Like  golden  sunlight  on  the  rain ; 


(46) 

High  o'er  the  grave  its  bow  appears ; 

The  Dead  in  Jesus  lives  again  ! 
We  sadly  seek  the  waiting  tomb, 

"Whose  echoes  mock  our  funeral  tread, 
And  in  His  Name  who  spoiled  its  gloom, 

To  peaceful  slumber  leave  the  Dead. 


HYMN, 

Written  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Lyceum  Hall,  South  Boston ;  1846. 

Art  flew  to  bless  the  virgin  world ; 

And,  since  she  lit  on  Shinar's  plain, 
Where  domes  have  swelled,  or  incense  curled, 

She  's  followed  in  Religion's  train. 

For  Wisdom  dwelt  with  God  of  old, 
Ere  flamed  the  sun  or  sang  the  stars ; 

Or  He  the  firmament  unrolled, 
Or  fixed  the  sea's  eternal  bars. 

The  Truth  that  Art  and  Science  preach 
Leads  up  to  God  —  from  God  it  came  ; 

Of  God  the  Laws  of  Matter  teach, 

And  Nature  's  pregnant  with  His  Name. 

His  awful  Name,  in  love  and  fear, 
We  thus  from  Knowledge  truly  learn ; 

And  thus  attempt  the  worship  here, 

That  thunders  where  the  Seraphs  burn. 


(47) 

Then  gather  we  around  the  throne, 
And  render  what  to  God  belong  — 

This  House,  from  cope  to  corner  stone, 
Our  supplication  and  our  song ! 


THE   CHURCH  IS   THERE. 

That  tossing  vessel's  silver  wake 

Thine  eye  discerns  no  more ; 
A  storm  has  gathered  on  the  lake, 

And  sullen  is  its  roar. 

Why  sinks  not  the  devoted  bark 

Beneath  that  boiling  sea  ? 
Why  o'er  those  men  close  not  the  dark 

Wild  waves  of  Galilee  ? 

The  Church  is  there  !  —  and  God,  who  keeps 

Within  his  fists  the  wave, 
Will  calm  the  passions  of  the  deeps, 

His  followers  to  save. 

Still  breasts  the  bark  the  troublous  gale ; 

She  's  on  the  flood  of  Time ; 
How  fearful  is  the  tempest's  wail ! 

How  high  the  waters  climb ! 

She  's  on  the  Deep  ;  —  though  her  beset 
Fierce  storms  that  prowl  the  seas, 

There  's  One  that  never  doth  forget 
To  lull  them  to  a  breeze. 


(48) 

And  ever  as  the  winds  increase, 

When  nearest  is  despair, 
His  voice  cries  through  the  thunders,  "  Peace ! " 

The  Church  —  the  Church  is  there  ! 

When  mighty  are  the  thralls  of  sin, 

And  tall  and  strong  is  pride, 
'T  is  safe  with  her  to  be  shut  in, 

And  o'er  the  danger  ride. 

Amid  the  sweep  of  whelming  waves, 

Amid  the  tempest's  stir  — 
Beneath  His  wings  whose  Presence  saves, 

May  I  be  found  with  her ! 


WE  WANDER  IN  A  THORNY  MAZE. 
Set  to  Music  by  A.  P.  Heinrich. 

We  wander  in  a  thorny  maze, 

A  vale  of  doubts  and  fears ; 
A  night  illumed  with  sickly  rays, 

A  wilderness  of  tears. 
We  wander,  bound  to  empty  show, 

The  slaves  of  boasted  will ; 
We  wander,  dupes  to  hope  untrue, 

And  love  to  wander  still. 

We  wander  —  while  unfading  joy 
The  heart  will  ne'er  approve, 

The  bliss  that  sparkles  to  destroy, 
Secures  its  warmest  love  ; 


(49) 

Some  syren  leads  our  steps  astray, 
And  speaks  no  peace  within ; 

We  wander  in  a  flowery  way, 
We  wander,  heirs  of  sin. 

We  wander  —  but  though  oft  we  roam, 

Led  by  allurement  strong, 
Yet  from  our  heavenly  Father's  home 

We  would  not  wander  long ; 
Cleanse  us,  0  Saviour !  from  this  stain 

In  Mercy's  living  flood, 
Restore  the  lost,  and  bring  again 

The  wanderer  back  to  God. 


THE  NATIVITY. 

Judea's  plains  in  silence  sleep 

Beneath  the  cloudless  midnight  sky, 
And  o'er  their  flocks  the  shepherds  keep 

Kind  watch,  to  David's  city  nigh : 
That  royal  city  !  —  nobler  Guest 

Is  she  awhile  to  entertain, 
Than  proudest  monarch,  whose  behest 

It  is  o'er  earthly  realms  to  reign. 
By  Him  salvation  is  to  mortals  given, 
On  Earth  is  shed  the  peerless  noon  of  Heaven. 

For  see !  along  the  deep  blue  arch 
A  glory  breaks  ;  —  and  now  a  throng 

From  where  the  sparkling  planets  march 
Comes  trooping  down  with  shout  and  song ; 


(50) 

And  o'er  those  pastures,  bathed  in  light, 
The  sacred  legions  stay  their  wing, 

While  on  the  wakeful  ear  of  night 

Steals  the  rich  hymn  that  Seraphs  sing. 

And  sweetly  thus  the  mellow  accents  ran, 
"  Glory  to  God,  Good  Will  and  Peace  to  Man! " 


GOD. 
Set  to  Music  by  A.  P.  Heinrich. 

First  Cause  !  The  Good !  Almighty !  Thou ! 

The  Dread,  Mysterious,  Alone ! 
The  Rightful  King,  the  AVondrous  Now ! 

The  Past,  the  Future,  the  Unknown ! 

Thou  Art !  —  O  Thou  !  the  untold  years 

Of  an  Eternity  are  Thine  ; 
Thy  Essence,  One,  Triune,  appears  — 

All  time  all  space  with  Thee  combine. 

Though  terrors  shroud,  0  Thou !  thy  way, 
Though  thunders  dwell  beneath  Thy  feet, 

Thy  glory  beams  with  kindly  ray 
Around  the  blessed  Mercy  seat. 

Help  me,  0  Thou  !  — 'tis  Thou  alone 
Canst  touch  my  lips  with  living  fire ; 

Though  frail,  I  would  approach  Thy  throne ; 
Though  dust,  would  reach  an  angel's  lyre. 


(51) 

Yet  help  me,  Sovereign  !  and  control 
Thy  subject's  wish  and  thought  to  Thee ; 

And  0,  accept  the  contrite  soul  — 
The  offering  dear  to  Deity. 


WEEP   NOT. 

Weep  not,  when  sad  distress  is  nigh, 
When  bliss  and  transient  pleasures  fly ; 
When  earthly  blessings  droop  and  fade, 
When  all  is  wrapt  in  sorrow's  shade. 

Weep  not,  when  death  with  cruel  dart 
Pierces  some  idol  of  the  heart ; 
When  hallowed  friendship  decks  the  bier, 
When  tender  love  would  claim  the  tear. 

Weep  not,  for  as  the  morning  cloud 
Doth  nature's  radiant  smile  enshroud, 
But  scatters  soon,  —  these  gloomy  woes 
Shall  flee,  and  all  be  calm  repose. 

Weep  not,  for  as  the  floweret  fair 
Is  crushed  with  winter's  blighting  air, 
Pressed  rudely  down,  it  droops  its  head, 
And  all  its  varied  hues  are  fled  — 


(52) 

With  opening  spring  its  bloom  revives ; 
Again  the  beauteous  floweret  lives ; 
Thus,  when  life's  wintry  storms  are  o'er, 
The  friend  revives  to  die  no  more. 


0  THOU  THAT  PLEAD'ST  WITH  PITYING  LOYE. 

O  thou  that  plead'st  with  pitying  love, 

How  large  that  love  and  free, 
When  sad  and  wounded  here,  we  prove 

There 's  rest  alone  in  Thee  ! 

Poor  wanderers,  tired,  bereft  of  all, 

To  sin  and  bondage  sold, 
We  strive,  till,  freed  from  Satan's  thrall, 

We  're  brought  to  Jesus'  fold. 

With  fervor  at  the  sinner's  heart 

Thou  plead'st  to  enter  in, 
And  there  the  kindly  balm  impart, 

That  heals  the  wounds  of  sin. 

"  Open  the  door  to  me,  my  spouse, 
My  love  is  ever  true ; 
My  head  with  drops  of  midnight  flows, 
My  locks  are  filled  with  dew." 

Who  shall  not,  Lord,  with  love  adore, 

When  thus  Jehovah  pleads  ? 
What  bosom  will  deny  the  door 

When  Jesus  intercedes  ? 


(53) 

Enter  this  heart,  my  Saviour,  God ! 

Subdue  this  stubborn  breast ; 
Shed  thy  renewing  grace  abroad, 

And  be  my  constant  guest. 


HYMNS, 


Written  for  the  Anniversaries  of  the  American  Sunday  School  Union ; 
Philadelphia. 


The  angel  ranks  that  gird  the  throne 
Of  Majesty,  stand  not  alone  ; 
To  mortals,  disenthralled,  't  is  given 
To  join  the  choral  hymn  of  heaven. 
Hark  !  even  now  a  richer  strain 
Comes  floating  o'er  the  eternal  plain  ; 
To  infant  choirs  those  harps  belong, 
And  children's  voices  swell  that  song. 


Gabriel  ne'er  touched  a  sweeter  string,  — 

His  legions  listen,  as  they  sing  ; 

O,  whence  those  cherub  minstrels  —  say  — 

Clad  in  Immanuel's  bright  array  ? 

In  scenes  where  thoughtless  worldlings  dwell 

Their  lot  was  cast,  whose  lyres  now  swell 

The  thrilling  melody  above ; 

Thine  be  the  praise,  0  God  of  love ! 


5* 


(54) 

The  Sunday  School  !     Earth  has  no  name 

Worthier  to  fill  the  breath  of  Fame  ; 

The  untold  blessings  it  hath  shed 

Shall  be  revealed  when  worlds  have  fled. 

0  thou  of  Bethlehem !  once  a  child, 

Jesus  !  compassionate  and  mild  — 

Approve  thy  work,  be  this  the  sum 

Of  all  our  toil  —  "  Thy  Kingdom  Come  ! " 


II. 

If  this  low  vale  of  strife  and  tears 

Were  never  sunned  by  Mercy's  beam, 
Where  gladness  now,  0  God,  appears, 

How  dark  would  thy  creation  seem  ! 
Revealed  in  splendors  was  thy  name, 

When  morn  her  banners  first  unfurled ; 
Yet  lovelier  is  the  Light  that  came, 

Shedding  redemption  o'er  a  world. 

To  this  high  impulse  man  has  bowed, 

And  frigid  hearts  have  learned  to  love ; 
The  fierce  are  humbled,  on  the  proud 

Sits  meekness  like  a  peaceful  dove ; 
Now  are  the  mighty  of  the  earth 

Workers  with  God  —  now  hoary  age 
Pants  to  partake  the  second  birth, 

Now  children  are  his  heritage. 

Earth  has  a  theme  allied  to  heaven, 
And  joys  like  those  that  revel  there, 

When  to  these  lisping  ones  is  given 
The  artless  eloquence  of  prayer ; 


(55) 

And  these  may  wake  a  trembling  string, 
While  rapture  every  bosom  thrills  — 

With  hymns  as  sweet  as  seraphs  sing 
Upon  those  everlasting  hills. 

Our  hearts  rejoice,  our  bosoms  glow, 

This  hour  what  cheering  visions  rise ! 
These  children,  nurtured  thus  below, 

Shall  swell  the  assemblies  of  the  skies. 
Glorious  will  be  his  diadem, 

And  songs  and  ecstasies  unknown, 
Who  forms  for  God  one  beauteous  gem, 

To  sparkle  on  the  eternal  throne. 

III. 

God,  our  God,  his  power  revealing, 

In  this  latter  harvest  time, 
Bids  his  Sun,  with  wings  of  healing, 

Rise  on  each  benighted  clime : 
See  I  o'er  vale  and  humbled  mountain, 

Rolls  his  conquering  car  to-day ; 
See  !  his  brightness,  like  a  fountain, 

Flooding  all  the  glad  highway. 

By  the  Mission  Ships  that  wander, 

Messengers  to  every  sea,  — 
By  his  servants,  toiling  yonder, 

Where  stern  idols  claim  the  knee,  — 
Bibles,  news  of  peace  declaring 

To  the  wretch  by  sin  undone, 
Tracts,  obedient  missives,  bearing 

Liberty  to  thraldom's  son : 


(56) 

By  the  tender  mercies  glowing 

Where  reigned  hatred  and  misrule, 
And  the  thousand  blessings  flowing 

From  his  chosen  Sunday  School  — 
He  is  Error's  night  dispelling, 

Bidding  grace  in  rivers  flow 
From  Antarctic,  to  the  dwelling 

Of  the  lowly  Esquimaux. 

Wake  the  harp,  ye  angels  !  ever 

Warble  ye  melodious  choirs  ! 
Sweet  your  minstrelsy,  yet  never 

With  Redemption  thrill  those  wires; 
T  is  our  song,  and  all  your  glory 

Starry  crowns  and  hymns  above 
Fade,  while  children  lisp  the  story 

Of  a  Saviour's  dying  love. 


IV. 

Union  prevails  in  heaven,  from  Him 
Who  all  its  spangled  sheet  unrolled, 

Down  to  the  flaming  cherubim 

That  veils  his  face  with  wings  of  gold. 

Union  is  written  on  each  star 
That  walks  in  music  as  it  shines, 

And  the  dim  worlds  that  float  afar 
Reveal  it,  traced  in  living  lines. 

In  Union  have  our  fathers  placed 
The  stone  that  God  will  not  forbid, 

Polished  and  sure  —  whereon  is  based 
The  Sunday  School's  fair  pyramid. 


1 


(57) 

In  Union  went  the  cloud  of  prayer, 
Their  embassy,  to  yonder  skies  ; 

Faltering,  and  yet  accepted  there, 
For  God  approved  the  sacrifice. 

O,  Thou !  that  sendest  blessings  down, 
The  hearing  and  the  answering  One  — 

Smile  on  their  toil,  and  give  the  crown, 
And  give  the  world  to  Christ  thy  Son. 


Where  warrior  feet  once  pressed  the  soil, 
And  Freedom  led  her  thousands  on, 

Hath  Knowledge  gathered  goodly  spoil, 
And  meek  Religion  trophies  won. 

O'er  valleys  where  repose  the  brave, 
Her  lovely  stars  hath  Peace  unfurled ; 

And  harvests  on  the  hill-tops  wave, 
Where  once  the  cloud  of  battle  curled. 

There  bowed  the  hostile  ranks  in  death, 
There  bent  our  sires  the  willing  knee, 

And  from  that  ground,  Lord  God !  the  breath 
Of  glad  thanksgiving  rose  to  Thee. 

Thou  who  didst  nerve  their  dauntless  hosts, 
And  give  them  victory  on  that  field, 

From  deadlier  foemen  guard  these  coasts, 
From  sin,  0  God !  the  children  shield. 


(58) 

Thou  went'st  before  them,  King  of  kings ! 

And  on  their  camp  thy  power  shone  out ; 
0,  that  the  shadow  of  thy  wings, 

Might  ever  compass  these  about ! 

Make  thou  this  land  a  heritage 

Refreshed  by  kindly  sun  and  shower  — 

"Whose  youth  shall  bloom,  from  age  to  age, 
Thy  right-hand  plants  of  fairest  flower. 

Thy  smiles  they  need,  their  care  to  crown, 
Who  watch  the  gate  or  build  the  dome ; 

Lord  !  on  our  toil  send  unction  down, 
To  gather  these  immortals  home. 

And  be  the  pearls  of  lustre  ours, 

The  gems  that  heaven  might  seek  to  wear  • 
Children  arrayed  in  yonder  bowers, 

Led  by  our  tears  and  watchings  there. 


VI. 

0,  God  !  this  universal  frame 

Reveals  the  splendor  of  thy  Name, 

And  on  the  heavens  that  thou  hast  spanned, 

Its  characters  in  beauty  stand. 


Of  Thee,  redeemed  ones  sweetly  sing, 
Where  errand  angels  plume  their  wing  ; 
That  mellow  music  bursts  and  dies 
Ever  along  those  upper  skies. 


(59) 

Yet  nobler  than  this  matchless  frame, 

Or  heaven  of  heavens,  where  dwells  thy  Name, 

Is  He  who  once  this  footstool  trod, 

The  Crucified  —  the  risen  God. 

And  richer  is  His  word  of  love, 
Than  notes  that  shake  the  throne  above, 
When  He  invites  his  children  home, 
Saying,  "  Forbid  them  not  to  come." 


MARY  AT  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

"Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Mary.  She  turned  herself,  and  saith  unto  him, 
Rabboni ;  which  is  to  say,  Master.  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Touch  me  not ;  for 
I  am  not  yet  ascended  to  my  Father ;  but  go  to  my  brethren,  and  say  unto 
them,  I  ascend  unto  my  Father  and  your  Father ;  and  to  my  God  and 
your  God." — Johx  xx.  16,  17. 

Jerusalem  is  silent  now, 

Her  priests  and  warriors  sleep  ; 
And  dimly  on  yon  vaulted  brow, 

The  stars  their  vigils  keep ; 
Unheeded  is  that  voiceless  gloom  — 

That  stillness  has  no  dread 
To  her  that  weeping  seeks  the  tomb 

Of  the  beloved  Dead. 

The  morn  on  Zion's  lonely  hill, 

Has  cast  no  beams  abroad ; 
Yet  Mary's  footstep  lingers  still  — 

She  £oes  to  seek  her  Lord : 


6 


(60) 

Why  stands  she  wondering  ?  —  Hands  unknown 

Have  burst  the  shroud  and  pall, 
And  rolled  away  the  sealed  stone, 

And  rent  the  prison  wall. 

Jesus,  the  Dead,  she  sees  no  more, 

And  weeps  in  fond  alarm,  — 
0,  shall  she  not  upon  him  pour 

Her  spices,  myrrh  and  balm  ? 
Blessed  One  !  thy  love  and  faith  are  great, 

Is  not  thy  triumph  near  ? 
Yes,  He  thou  seek'st  doth  on  thee  wait, 

Mary  !  behold  Him  here. 


I  SLEEP,  BUT  MY  HEART  WAKETH.—  Canticles,  v.  2. 


The  Church  is  slumbering.     She  that  once  awoke 

And  girded  on  her  beautiful  array, 

And  went  forth  terribly,  is  idle  ;  yea, 
Is  sleeping  now.     She  thinks  not  how  she  broke 
Her  dreamings  once,  and  shook  off  the  stern  yoke 

Of  Ignorance  and  Cruelty.     The  gloom 
Of  night  is  on  her  —  gone  is  that  fair  day. 

She  is  all  lovely  —  is  it  for  the  tomb  ! 
Will  not  the  few  sad  watchers  for  her,  pray 

That  everlasting  sleep  be  not  her  doom  ? 
That  in  her  silent  chamber  the  strong  ray 
Of  Life  poured  down,  shall  cause  her  to  betake 

Herself  to  weeping  for  her  once  bright  bloom  ?  — 
Church,  that  art  slumbering,  —  is  thy  heart  awake  ? 


(61) 


THY  WILL  BE   DONE. 

When  sorrow  casts  its  shade  around, 
And  pleasure  seems  our  course  to  shun ; 

When  nought  but  grief  and  care  is  found, 
'T  is  sweet  to  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

When  sickness  lends  its  pallid  hue, 
And  every  dream  of  bliss  has  flown, 

When  quickly  from  the  fading  view 
Recede  the  joys  that  once  were  known, 

The  soul  resigned  will  yet  rejoice, 

Though  life's  last  sand  has  nearly  run ; 

With  humble  faith  and  trembling  voice, 
It  still  replies,  "Thy  will  be  done." 

When  called  to  mourn  the  early  doom 
Of  one  Affection  held  most  dear, 

While  drops  upon  the  closing  tomb 
The  silent,  the  expressive  tear ; 

Though  love  its  tribute,  sad,  will  pay, 
And  earthly  streams  of  solace  shun, 

Still,  still  the  gracious  soul  will  say, 
In  lowly  dust,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

Whate'er,  0  Lord,  thou  hast  designed 
To  bring  my  soul  to  thee,  its  Trust, 

If  mercies  or  afflictions  kind, 

For  all  thy  dealings,  Lord,  are  just  — 


=3 


(G2) 

Take  all!  but  grant  in  goodness  free, 

The  love  that  ne'er  Thy  stroke  would  shun ; 

Support  this  heart  and  strengthen  me 
To  say  in  faith,  "Thy  will  be  done." 


'TIS  TO  THE  EAST  THE  HEBREW  BENDS. 

'T  is  to  the  East  the  Hebrew  bends, 

When  morn  unveils  its  brow ; 
And  while  the  evening  rite  ascends, 

The  East  receives  his  vow. 
Dear  to  the  exile  is  the  soil 

That  reared  Jehovah's  Vine  ; 
Dear  to  the  wretched  heir  of  toil 

Thy  memory,  Palestine ! 

'T  is  to  the  East  the  Hebrew  turns, 

The  East !  to  Hebrews  dear, 
When  kindling  recollection  burns, 

When  memory  claims  the  tear. 
Land  of  the  Patriarch  !  he  recalls 

The  days  of  promise,  when 
The  timbrel  rang  along  thy  halls, 

And  God  communed  with  men. 


Where  Babel  murmured  Judah's  wrongs, 
The  banished  Hebrew  sighs  ; 

Where  Zion  swelled  her  holy  songs, 
His  tribute  seems  to  rise ; 


(03) 

And  Hope  still  wings  his  thought  afar,  — 

It  tells  to  those  that  roam, 
That  He  who  rode  the  cloudy  car 

"Will  guide  His  children  home. 


0  THOU!  IN  THIS  DARK  WORLD  OF  OURS. 

0  Thou  !  in  this  dark  world  of  ours, 

"Whose  voyagers  tempt  a  surging  sea, 
Where  Guilt  flaps  wings  and  Passion  lowers, 

Who  can  direct  and  save,  but  Thee  ? 
For  deeper  rolls  the  Gulf  of  Sin, 

And  higher  still  its  billows  climb, 
And  few  the  port  in  safety  win  — 

Survivors  of  the  wrecks  of  Time. 

Yet  here  Religion  sheds  the  light 

That  elevates,  refines,  reforms  ; 
That  burns  upon  the  brow  of  Night, 

A  lovely  Star,  beset  with  storms ; 
That  shines  along  the  rebel's  track, 

And  floods  with  radiance  Error's  feet ; 
That  woos  the  weary  wanderer  back, 

And  lifts  Despair  to  Glory's  seat. 

Her  presence  is  continual  balm, 

That  heals  beyond  the  power  of  art ; 

Her  words  the  hell  of  anguish  calm, 
Her  smile  is  heaven  within  the  heart. 


(64) 

Peace  at  her  mandate  takes  the  throne, 
Where  Woe  and  Ruin  ruled  before ; 

And  tumults  die  at  Mercy's  tone 

Of  "  Daughter,  go,  and  sin  no  more  ! " 

That  Gospel  shall  not  all  obey, 

And  thus  deliverance  bless  the  world 
Wherever  folly  takes  its  way,  — 

Wherever  clouds  of  grief  are  curled  ? 
So  be  it,  Lord !  —  let  work  and  prayer 

With  blessings  clothe  affliction's  rod, 
Till  all  Thy  laborers  mingle  where 

The  pure  and  perfect  see  their  God. 


SUNDAY  SCHOOLS  IX  THE  WEST. 

He  came  to  drink  his  bitter  cup, 
And  men  accorded  not  acclaim  ; 

Yet  from  young  lips  a  shout  went  up 
That  put  the  frowning  priests  to  shame. 

Beyond  the  skill  to  Levites  known 

When  trump  to  answering  cymbal  calls, 

Was  that  rich  swell  of  touching  tone 
That  met  Him  in  Moriah's  halls. 

Since  then  in  deep  forgetfulness 
The  harp  of  Infancy  had  lain, 

Till  Sunday  Schools  were  sent  to  bless, 
And  bid  its  lispings  live  again. 


(65) 

To  this  dark  world  't  was  gladdening  hour, 
When  voices  that  had  slumbered  long, 

In  all  the  charms  of  childhood's  power 
"Woke  up  to  holiness  and  song. 

Eight  well  't  was  then,  to  mark  the  boy 
Still  tending  sky-ward,  led  by  Love, 

And  as  he  journeyed,  singing,  "  Thou  ! 
My  Father,  —  art  my  guide  above." 

And  cheeks,  where  rioted  the  curl, 
To  see  suffused  with  tears  for  sin ; 

And  holy  smiles,  by  which  that  girl 
Revealed  the  quiet  peace  within ! 

Of  gifts  from  man,  was  his*  the  best 
In  yonder  isle,  whose  patient  prayer 

Brought  dews  upon  that  vine  to  rest, 

And  England's  thousands  sheltered  there. 

And  friendly  to  my  country's  weal 
Was  he  that  bore  across  the  wave 

The  tree,  whose  leaves  refresh  and  heal, 
Whose  branches  flourish  on  the  grave. 

Shall  not  to  him  —  the  noble  one  — 

Be  grateful  tribute  ever  paid, 
Who  gave  its  blossoms  to  our  sun, 

To  cheer  us  with  its  balm  and  shade,  — 

*  Robert  Raikes. 

6* 


(66) 

And  led  our  little  ones  among 
Its  bowers,  safe  from  wanderings, 

As  watchful  shepherds  win  their  young 
To  verdant  vales  and  silvery  springs? 

Yes  !  and  to  those  whose  beaming  eyes 
Have  lately  looked  upon  the  West, 

And  said,  beneath  its  pleasant  skies 
This  plant  shall  shelter  the  oppressed, 

And  tower  above  the  lordly  pines, 

And  fling  its  fragrance  round  the  land, 

From  Alleghany's  wilds,  to  where 
Pacific's  billows  kiss  the  strand,  — 

Be  thanks ;  —  yet  rather,  Holy  Lord ! 

From  Thee  it  comes,  to  Thee  they  're  given ; 
And  Thou  wilt  send  the  searching  word 

That  saves,  restores,  and  lifts  to  Heaven. 


5 

(07) 


THE  BURDEN  AND  THE  CROSS. 

"  Now  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  the  highway  which  Christian  was  to  go 
was  fenced  on  either  side  with  a  wall,  and  that  wall  was  called  Salvation ; 
Isa.  xxvi.  1.  Up  this  way,  therefore,  did  burdened  Christian  run  ;  but  not 
without  great  difficulty,  because  of  the  load  on  his  back.  He  ran  thus  till 
he  came  at  a  place  somewhat  ascending;  and  upon  that  place  stood  a  Cross, 
and  a  little  below,  in  the  bottom,  a  sepulchre.  So  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that 
just  as  Christian  came  up  with  the  Cross,  his  Burden  loosed  from  off  his 
shoulders,  and  fell  from  off  his  back,  and  began  to  tumble,  and  so  continued 
to  do,  till  it  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre,  where  it  fell  in,  and  I  saw 
it  no  more."  —  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

We  bear  along  our  toilsome  way 

A  burden,  taken  at  the  birth ; 
How  deeply,  sadly,  none  may  say, 

It  bows  the  wearer  down  to  earth. 
JT  is  written,  like  the  prophet's  scroll, 

All  sighs  without,  all  woes  within ; 
It  lays  upon  the  fainting  soul 

The  grievous  malison  of  sin. 

There  is  no  peace  around  the  board, 

Though  heaped  with  meats,  and  crowned  with  wine ; 
There  is  no  peace,  where  heaven  hath  stored 

For  man  domestic  bliss  divine. 
There  is  no  peace  in  balmy  sleep ; 

]Sfo  angel  there,  to  bid  it  seem 
Like  Eden,  where  immortals  keep 

Watch  o'er  the  lips  of  those  that  dream. 

To  madness  urged,  we  leave  our  home, 
God  knows  with  what  disturbed  intent 


6= 


(68) 

To  crush  reflection  as  we  roam,  — 
To  wander,  till  His  grace  is  spent ! 

Yet  vain  to  us  the  painted  fields, 
Or  valleys  smiling  with  the  sheaf; 

The  roadside  flower  no  sweetness  yields 
To  travelers  in  their  guilt  and  grief. 

Go  where  we  may,  it  goes  with  us ; 

At  home,  abroad,  or  well,  or  ill ; 
In  mirth,  in  joy,  the  constant  curse 

Is  woven  with  existence  still. 
It  shames  us  in  the  open  mart ; 

It  dyes  our  cheek  in  secret  hour ; 
It  sits,  a  vulture,  on  the  heart, 

And  tortures  with  unsparing  power. 

Across  the  desert  lies  the  way 

To  that  high  place  of  fearful  name ; 
"We  choose  it,  and,  regardless  stray, 

To  Sinai's  awful  mount  of  flame. 
The  tenfold  trumpet,  waxing  loud 

And  louder,  warns  the  sinner  thence ; 
How  may  he  shun  —  the  lost,  the  proud  — 

The  Law  that  slays  for  one  offence ! 

Shall  we,  with  Christian,  take  the  path, 

That  points,  as  worldlings  deem,  to  loss, 
But,  leading  from  impending  wrath, 

That  brings  the  Pilgrim  to  the  Cross  ? 
Oh,  we  may  travel  folly's  road, 

Bowed  with  our  burden  to  despair ; 
Yet,  never,  never  drop  the  load, 

Till,  taught  by  grace,  we  leave  it  there ! 


(69) 

How  many  painful  steps  he  took ! 

What  heavy  groanings  rent  his  breast ! 
Till,  casting  on  that  sight  a  look, 

At  once  he  found  relief  and  rest. 
And  thus  \  is  ever  with  the  heart 

That  turns  aside  to  solace,  vain ; 
It  cannot  with  its  anguish  part ; 

The  guilt  and  burden  must  remain. 

O  God !  when  finding  out  the  cheat 

Of  this  delusive  world  below, 
We  turn  away  our  weary  feet, 

And  to  the  Cross  with  weeping  go,  — 
How  blest  to  feel,  while  gazing,  all 

That  weighed  our  spirit  down  before, 
Loosed  by  thy  love,  forever  fall 

Where  Mercy  ne'er  shall  see  it  more! 


ROBERT   RAIKES  IN  THE   SUBURBS    OF   GLOUCESTER. 

"  It  was  his  custom  to  visit  in  person  the  families  of  the  poor,  and  to  per- 
suade the  parents  to  feel  interested  in  the  well-being  of  their  children ;  while 
at  the  same  time  he  persuaded  the  children  to  come  to  the  Sunday  school." 

And  who  is  he  that 's  seeking, 

With  look  and  language  mild, 
To  heal  the  heart  that 's  breaking, 

And  save  the  vagrant  child  ? 
He  searches  lane  and  alley,  — 

The  mean  and  dark  abode, — 
From  Satan's  hosts  to  rally 

The  conscripts  due  to  God. 


(70) 

With  words  of  kindly  greeting, 

Warm  from  an  honest  heart, 
He  *s  Ignorance  intreating 

In  Wisdom  to  have  part. 
With  charity  unfailing, 

He  patiently  doth  take 
Rebuke  and  sinful  railing, 

For  Christ  the  Shepherd's  sake. 

He  wins  from  vicious  mothers 

The  children  of  neglect, 
The  sisters  and  the  brothers 

From  households  sadly  wrecked. 
And  these,  the  Truth  impressing 

Beneath  his  gentle  rule, 
Have  called  on  him  a  blessing, 

Who  formed  the  Sunday  school. 

I  'd  rather  my  life's  story 

Should  have  such  episode, 
Than  all  the  gorgeous  glory 

Napoleon's  history  showed. 
For  when  no  more  war's  banner 

With  shouting  is  unfurled, 
These  children's  sweet  hosanna 

May  shake  the  upper  world. 


(71) 


THE  SACRAMENTS. 

But  shall  they  be  my  God  ?  or  shall  I  have 

Of  them  so  foul  and  impious  a  thought, 
To  think  that  from  the  curse  they  can  me  save  ? 

Bread,  wine,  nor  water,  me  no  ransom  brought, 

John  BunyaTt, 

I  bring  unto  the  Font,  with  holy  feeling, 

My  blossom,  sweet,  and  yet  defiled ; 
And  crave  the  sign,  that  Love  is  here  revealing, 

To  seal,  for  aye,  my  child. 
Yet  cannot  deem  these  pure  innocuous  waters 

Sprinkled  on  the  appealing  face  — 
Can  ever  give  to  Adam's  sons  or  daughters 

Restoring  life  and  grace. 

I  do  approach  with  awe  and  sacred  pleasure 

The  Feast  of  origin  divine  — 
And  here,  though  poor,  do  take  all  glorious  treasure, 

Handling  the  bread  and  wine. 
Yet  cannot  think  the  Eucharist  is  food 

To  satisfy  the  starving  mind 
That  feeds  on  sin.     Here,  if  my  sin  intrude, 

My  Lord  I  may  not  find. 


(72) 


THE  FACE  OF  DEATH. 

What  a  spiritual  expression 
Death  doth  ever  wear ! 
'T  is  as  if  its  own  impression 

Heaven  writeth  there- 
Something  of  eternity 
In  that  fixed  face  you  see. 

Or,  as  if  the  soaring  spirit, 
Leaving  dust  alone  — 

Ere  she  mounted,  lingering,  gave  it 
Image  of  her  own ; 

Setting  solemn  seal  on  earth, 

Known  again  at  glorious  birth. 

Listen,  mother  !  —  by  this  token 
Joy  shall  follow  pain ; 

Ties  shall  be  renewed,  now  broken, 
She  shall  live  again ! 

Then  thy  beauteous  babe  will  shine 

With  a  countenance  divine ! 


6= 


Q 


<73) 


CHRISTIAN   WAES. 

A  Turk,  at  Jerusalem,  once  said  to  Mr.  Wolff,  the  missionary,  u  Why- 
do  you  come  to  "us  ?  "  The  missionary  replied,  u  To  bring  you  peace." 
"  Peace  !  "  replied  the  Turk,  leading  Mr.  Wolff  to  a  window,  and  pointing 
him  to  Calvary,  "  there,  upon  the  very  spot  where  your  Lord  poured  out 
his  blood,  the  Mohammedan  is  obliged  to  interfere,  to  prevent  Christians 
from  shedding  the  blood  of  each  other."" 

The  angels*  song,  that  happy  night 

When  spirits  stooped  to  mortal  ken, 
Warbled  from  lips  and  lyres  of  light, 

Was,  Peace  on  earth,  Good  Will  to  men. 

In  Peace,  the  sages  came,  and  paid 
Their  offering  of  the  gold  and  myrrh ; 

And  why  such  bliss  on  Mary  laid  ?  — 
She  felt  that  Peace  had  come  to  her. 

Peace  was  the  theme,  when  precepts  dropt 

From  Jesus'  lips,  like  his  own  dew  ; 
Who  oped  their  eyes  ?     Who  ears  unstopt  ? 

His  name  was  Peace  —  't  was  all  they  knew. 

The  word  that  lingered  on  his  tongue, 

When  sighs  and  suffering  soon  should  cease, 

And  Jesse's  Root  be  rudely  flung 
As  a  vile  weed  away,  was  Peace. 

*T  was  "  Peace,"  that  sweetly  soothed  the  fear 
Of  those  who  mourned  their  Master  slain ; 

With  Peace  their  weapon,  far  and  near, 
They  won  the  world  to  Him  again. 


(74) 

Peace  is  inscribed  on  that  broad  scroll 
The  angel  bears  whom  Saint  John  saw ; 
"  Joy  to  all  realms  where  pines  a  soul, 
And  to  the  isles,  Jehovah's  law  I " 

And  yet,  oh,  God !  the  Christian's  wrath, 
Through  all  her  seas,  through  all  her  zones, 

Has  in  Earth's  bosom  hewed  a  path 

That 's  whitened  with  her  children's  bones. 

In  thy  Son's  name  the  sword  drinks  blood ; 

In  thy  Son's  name,  since  first  his  Star 
Spoke  Peace,  has  surged  the  angry  flood 

Of  cruel  and  destructive  War. 

Drop,  Christendom !  thy  boasted  name, 
And  let  the  humble  take  it  —  those 

Who  fear,  in  spite  of  taunt  and  shame, 
To  count  their  Christian  fellows  foes. 


HYMN, 


Sung  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Second  Presbyterian  Chnrch, 
Cincinnati;  1S30. 

Heart  and  hymn,  Thy  sons  and  daughters 

Give  to  Thee,  Incarnate  Word ! 
Voices,  as  of  many  waters, 

Answer,  "  Holy,  Holy,  Lord  ! " 
From  thy  sanctuary  bending, 

Of  whose  bliss  the  Sun  thou  art,  — 
Listen  to  the  song  ascending, 

Look  upon  the  humble  heart. 


--3 


(75) 

What,  though  to  thy  Name,  a  dwelling 

Mortals  build,  whence  prayer  shall  rise  ■ 
Temples,  all  their  art  excelling, 

Are  thy  earth  and  painted  skies  ; 
Crowns  and  harps  are  thine  for  ever, 

Lord  of  Uncreated  Day ! 
Yet  from  our  low  praises,  never 

Wilt  thou  turn  thine  ear  away. 

Swelling  domes,  unto  thy  glory 

Reared,  we  scarcely  deem  begun, 
Till  upon  each  stone,  the  story 

Is  inscribed,  of  trophies  won. 
Here,  oh  Dove  !  thyself  revealing, 

Let  the  tear  be  shed  for  sin ; 
O'er  us  spread  thy  wing  of  healing, 

Be  its  shadow  felt  within. 

Name !  in  which  we  raise  our  banner, 

Lay  the  stone  and  build  the  wall ; 
Name  !  that  wakes  the  glad  hosanna, 

Name  !  by  which  this  house  we  call ; 
Opened  are  the  doors  of  heaven, 

Lifted  are  the  gates  of  God  — 
Enter  !  —  souls  to  Thee  are  given, 

Thou  that  hast  the  wine-press  trod. 


(76) 


THE  PALM  TREE. 

Beautiful  tree  of  the  towering  stem  ! 
Wearing  thy  flowers  like  a  diadem  — 
Whose  leafy  garlands,  always  green, 
Always  fair  and  flowing  are  seen ; 
Whose  scarlet  fruit,  like  coral  bright, 
To  the  longing  traveller  yields  delight ; 
Noblest  thou  of  the  forest  throng ! 
To  thee  I  give  a  simple  song. 
I  never  saw  thee,  princely  plant, 
In  Syria's  vales,  nor  in  thy  haunt  — 
"  The  city  of  palm  trees,"  Jericho, 
Nor  where  the  Jordan's  currents  flow, 
Nor  where  the  mighty  Lebanon  sees, 
In  pride,  his  aged  cedar  trees ; 
Nor  where  is  found  the  clustering  vine, 
Or  tempting  olive  of  Palestine  ; 
Nor  in  the  distant  desert,  where 
Palmyra's  solemn  ruins  are  ;  — 
Yet  I  have  loved  thee,  since  a  boy, 
It  was  at  home  my  glad  employ 
To  read,  beneath  my  father's  eye, 
In  Holy  Writ ;  —  and  gladly  I 
Did  in  the  blessed  Sabbath's  calm, 
Read  and  talk  of  the  stately  palm ; 
That  the  Good  shall  be  like  the  flourishing  tree, 
Planted  by  the  gushing  river ; 
That  yields  in  his  season  his  fruit,  and  he, 
The  evergeen,  shall  never  wither. 


o= 


(77) 

The  pilgrim  eagerly  looks  for  thee, 
When  faint  and  almost  spent  with  thirst; 
He  knows  where  thou  art,  guiding  tree, 
The  cool  deep  waters  freely  burst. 
0  thus  may  I  the  Saviour  seek, 
"When  in  this  desert  faint  and  weak, 
Assured  that  He  my  steps  will  show 
And  lead  where  streams  forever  flow. 


THE  ELECT  ANGELS. 
1  Tim.  5 :  21. 

0,  Angels  !  nearest  to  the  King, 

Elected  from  the  rest  — 
Why,  o'er  those  winged  and  flaming  troops, 

Are  ye  accounted  blest  ? 

Is  't  with  Jehovah,  Father,  Son, 

Jehovah,  Holy  Ghost, 
Ye  marshal  up  the  glittering  ranks, 

Co-leaders  of  the  host? 

Is  ?t  when  the  burning  worlds  roll  by, 

And  ancient  Time  has  fled, 
That  ye,  auxiliary  to  Christ, 

Shall  judge  the  quick  and  dead  ? 

Whate'er  your  high  behest  may  be, 

Your  starry  eyes,  I  know, 
Look  down  from  golden  heights,  to  bless 

The  humble  heart  below. 

7* 


(78) 

Your  awful  beauty  shines  around, 

Rebuking  gross  desire ; 
Your  innocence  consumes  my  sin 

With  salutary  fire. 

Ye  are  apostles  unto  me ; 

Your  Presence  is  a  call, 
In  thought,  and  word,  and  deed,  to  keep 

The  charge  of  holy  Paul! 


THAT  LOOK! 

And  the  Lord  turned  and  looked  upon  Peter.  —  Luke  xxii:  61. 

That  Look !  —  when  eye  met  eye  —  what  power 

Was  in  that  wondrous  Look, 
Which  he,  deemed  of  the  Twelve  a  tower, 

Unshaken,  might  not  brook  ? 

Rolled  forth  the  angry  thunders  then, 

To  speak  his  blighting  shame  ? 
Or  met  that  chief  of  fickle  men 

The  Godhead's  glance  of  flame  — 

Revealing,  where  the  mocked  One  stood  — 

The  Scorned  in  priestly  hall  — 
That  He,  about  to  bear  the  wood, 

And  die,  was  Sire  of  All  ? 

No!  such  was  not  His  gracious  will, 

His  nature  was  not  so ; 
Yea,  that  He,  patient,  pitieth  still, 

My  soul  has  cause  to  know ! 


— 9 

(79) 


Round  that  proud  palace  —  dark  as  hell, 
With  hell's  completed  crime  — 

No  forked  and  fiery  vengeance  fell ; 
'T  was  not  the  Father's  time. 

No  !  nor  on  that  Denier,  who 

For  life,  risked  Life  above ; 
Yet  his  forgiving  Lord  he  knew 

In  that  full  glance  of  Love  ! 


THE    INDIFFERENT. 

I  saw  a  man  who  had  sojourned  where 
The  Saviour  once  did  tabernacle.     He 
Familiar  was  with  Bethlehem,  Nazareth ;  knew 
The  very  site  of  Jacob's  well ;  had  talked 
Where  Jesus  talked,  —  was  intimate  with  all 
The  scenes  of  Gospel  story ;  yea,  had  dwelt 
Hard  by  the  Garden ;  and  his  daily  course 
Had  taken  o'er  the  soil  of  Calvary ; 
And  yet  he  gaily  spoke  of  these  ;  and  smiled, 
And  smoothed  his  chin,  and  twisted  in  his  hair 
His  dainty  fingers,  as  with  unconcern 
He  took  upon  his  lips  those  sacred  names. 
And  then  I  thought  that  such  an  one  in  Heaven 
Would  ask  the  Crucified  to  show  His  scars, 
And  coldly  gaze,  while  angels  blush  and  shrink ;  - 
And,  Gallio  like,  care  not  for  all  these  things. 


(80) 


A  RECOLLECTION. 

I  knew  thee  once  where  sweeps  Ohio's  tide ; 

An  exile  thou  from  thy  New  England  home ; 
Yet  not  in  western  solitudes  to  hide, 

Nor  to  acquire  rich  knowledge,  didst  thou  roam. 
Knowledge  thou  hadst,  and  taste,  and  thou  couldst  please 
With  various  lore ;  thou  didst  not  stray  for  these. 

But  to  disperse  thy  wealth  of  learning,  so 

Thy  fellow-men  should  profit  by  it  well ; 
That  Lowliness  the  glorious  Cross  might  know ; 

That  Pomp  might  turn  aside  and  with  Religion  dwell. 
This  was  thy  aim,  if  thee  I  read  aright, 
Thou  soul  of  modesty,  and  love,  and  light ! 

Yes,  and  to  show  in  action,  word,  and  look,  — 
The  which  the  world  most  eagerly  doth  scan  — 

That  all  was  modeled  from  the  sacred  Book 
Whose  pages  pattern  out  the  Christian  man ; 

Who  only  knows,  in  spite  of  Learning's  pride, 

The  alphabet  divine  of  Christ  the  Crucified. 

And  therefore  't  is  no  wonder  unto  me, 

That  near  thy  dying  couch  the  Saviour  stood ; 

And  angels'  wings  shook  round  thee  fragrancy, 
The  while  they  bore  thee  over  Jordan's  flood. 

Thus  thy  departure,  thus  the  righteous  die 

Who  live  the  righteous  ;  —  Jesus  !  thus  may  I. 


(81) 


HYMN  FOR  THE   ORGANIZATION   OF    A   CONGREGATIONAL 
CHURCH. 

For  conscience  bold,  our  sires  of  old,  — 

A  heaven-devoted  flock, 
Tempting  the  waves,  —  by  Him  who  saves, 

Were  led  to  Plymouth  Kock. 

Stern  Winter's  sway  held  shore  and  bay, 
What  time  they  pitched  their  tent ; 

And  ere  Spring's  bloom,  unto  the  tomb 
Their  flower  of  manhood  went. 

Want  hedged  their  path ;  the  red  man's  wrath, 

And  sickness,  too,  they  met, 
And  griefs ;  yet,  God !  the  way  they  trod, 

Thy  mercy  did  beset. 

Two  hundred  years  !  —  those  precious  tears 

And  watchings,  want  and  pain, 
Hid  in  that  field,  now  freely  yield 

A  thousand  fold  again. 

0,  Sire  of  Grace !  we  of  their  race, 
To  whom  their  deeds  are  known,  — 

Our  hopes  fulfilled,  this  church  do  build 
On  Jesus  Christ  alone. 

Thy  Help  our  stay,  be  ours  the  way 

Those  ancient  fathers  trod ; 
Our  zeal,  like  theirs,  our  toils  and  prayers, 

And  ours  the  Pilgrim's  God ! 


(») 


CHRIST  RISEN. 

Darkly  o'er  thee,  Palestine ! 

Hangs  the  dreadful  veil  of  night ; 
Land  of  Shinar !  grief  is  thine, 

Quenched  the  glory  of  thy  light. 
Where  is  now  the  promise  given 

To  thy  sires  of  ancient  day  ? 
Where  is  now  the  lamp  of  heaven, 

To  direct  the  wanderer's  way  ? 

Ye  who,  favored,  saw  Him,  tell 

Of  his  mien,  beyond  compare ; 
Ye  who  marked  Him  when  he  fell, 

Say,  was  not  the  the  Godhead  there  ? 
Yet  he  sunk  beneath  the  rod  — 

Anguish  sat  upon  his  brow  — 
Men  have  triumphed  in  his  blood, 

And  the  marble  holds  Him  now. 

Wherefore  then  the  golden  beam 

Springing  up  the  eastern  sky, 
Bright,  yet  soft  as  Morning's  dream, 

When  Night's  empire  passes  by  ? 
Wherefore  then  the  choral  hymn 

Floating  on  the  wavy  air  — 
Why  is  rent  the  marble  tomb  ?  — 

Jesus  sleeps  no  longer  there ! 


Takes  He  now  immortal  power  — 
Every  foe  beneath  Him  lies ; 


(83) 

He  has  risen !  —  glorious  hour ! 

We  who  sleep  in  Him  shall  rise. 
Welcome  Death !  each  sorrow  closing, 

Now  thy  features  smiles  do  wear ; 
Welcome  Grave  !  to  flesh  reposing, 

Jesus  is  the  victor  there. 


HYMN  TO  GOD. 

Almighty  Thou !  although  thy  throne 

Is  arched  above  revolving  spheres, 
Though  attributes  are  Thine  alone 

In  number,  countless  as  Thy  years,  — 
Though  'neath  Thy  feet  is  darkness  spread, 

There  the  hushed  thunders,  trembling,  lie  — 
Though,  in  thy  Presence,  fraught  with  dread, 

The  unveiled  worshipper  may  die, 

Yet  we,  O  God !  a  feeble  band, 

In  Jesus  may  acceptance  claim ; 
Yet  we,  the  creatures  of  thy  hand, 

May  come,  and  breathe  a  Father's  Name. 
Lord  of  Assemblies  !  O  inspire 

Our  hearts  with  eloquence  of  prayer ; 
From  yonder  temple  waft  the  fire 

That  glows  upon  thine  altar  there. 

While  we  approach  the  Mercy  Seat, 
Once  hidden,  but  in  Christ  restored  — 

And  tread,  with  unpresuming  feet, 
The  place  of  Holiest  to  the  Lord,  — 


(84) 

Hear  Thou  in  heaven,  and  oh  impart 
Some  ray  that  burns  and  cheers  above, 

The  glory,  telling  where  Thou  art, 
Dread  Uncreate  !  is  Light  and  Love. 

Thou  art  Almighty,  —  we  are  dust,  — 

Thou  art  All-seeing,  —  finite  we, 
In  judgment  erring,  —  Thou  art  just, 

Fountain  of  Strength  !  we  draw  from  thee. 
Shine  on  our  worship,  —  Rise,  thou  Star 

Of  David,  chase  the  night  away ! 
Bid  Faith's  strong  vision  look  afar 

To  Thee,  the  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way! 


THE   CHINESE  MISSION. 

Go,  minister  of  God, 
To  lands  where  soar  pagodas  in  their  pride, 

The  soil  that  pagan  footstep  long  has  trod, 
And  tell  the  story  of  a  Saviour  crucified. 

Go  to  the  clime  of  night, 
Where,  sullen,  broods  the  darkness  that  is  felt ; 
And  point  those  millions  to  the  star  of  Light, 
That  burned  and  trembled  once,  above  where  Magi  knelt. 

Go,  and  amid  the  din 
Of  idol  bells  and  heaving  multitudes, 

Teach  erring  men  the  anthem  to  begin, 
That,  whispered  below,  swells  out  in  blest  abodes. 


(85) 

Go  —  in  this  mortal  strife 
The  Crucified,  your  Captain,  leads  before ; 

Look  ever  to  Him,  —  they  are  crowns  of  life 
He  gives ;  win  thou  for  Christ  the  Asiatic  shore. 

Go !  and  in  life's  glad  morn, 
If  wills  the  Master  here,  no  more  we  meet  — 

With  China's  millions  by  his  grace  new  born, 
He  '11  gather  thee  and  us  unto  His  feet. 


THE  ISRAELITE'S  PRAYER. 

No  hallowed  oils,  no  grains  I  need, 
No  rags  of  saints,  no  purging  fire. 

Sir  Henry  Wbtton,  1568. 

0  Lord  !  at  thy  throne,  a  poor  Israelite,  kneeling, 

In  lowliness,  comes  with  his  prayer  to  thee  now ; 
"With  confidence,  yet  in  emotion,  revealing 

The  reverence  that  awes,  as  he  ventures  to  bow. 
Yet  how  shall  he  come  ?  for  the  cherubim's  token 

Is  faded  that  waved  once  o'er  Mercy's  bright  seat ; 
By  Urim  and  Thummim  thy  will  is  not  spoken, 

And  darkness  is  where  burned  Shechinah !  thy  feet. 
No  longer  may  he,  on  Samaria's  mountain, 

Bow  down,  nor  to  Zion  of  David  repair ; 
Siloa  flows  sweetly,  yet  songs  by  that  fountain 

Ascend  not  to  thee,  nor  from  Olivet  prayer. 
0,  Thou !  that  didst  bring  out  thy  chosen  in  power 

From  Pharaoh,  we  know  that  thou  humbledst  his  pride, 
Yet  we,  the  delivered,  are  whelmed  at  this  hour 

As  deep  as  his  horsemen  that  sunk  in  the  tide. 

8 


(86) 

Forgive,  0  thou  Just  One !  — our  fathers  in  folly, 

Forsaking  thy  service,  to  idols  did  turn, 
And  under  the  green  tree,  the  myrtle  and  holly, 

On  high  places  incense  to  Baal  did  burn ;  * 
And  thou  didst  reject  them,  and  judgment  succeeding 

To  judgment,  gave  sign  of  the  wrath  of  the  Lord,  — 
Their  valiant  men  routed,  their  heritage  bleeding,  | 

Thou  wentest  no  longer  with  buckler  and  sword. 
And  now  we  are  peeled,  and  a  jest  to  the  nations, 

And  scattered  among  them  as  leaves  that  are  sere ; 
With  ashes  are  mingled  our  bitter  oblations, 

The  cup  of  our  trembling  is  dashed  with  a  tear. 
Yet  think  upon  Abraham  !  —  the  oath  that  unto  him 

Thou  swear'st  by  Thy  Greatness,  none  other  so  high,  — 
And  think  on  the  seed  that  by  faith  thou  didst  show  him, 

As  countless  as  stars  on  the  Syrian  sky.  J 
That  oath  is  unbroken !  that  covenant  never 

Could  perish,  though  Thee  have  thy  people  forgot ; 
That  seed  is  uncounted  —  by  kingdoms  wherever 

Did  families  cluster,  and  Israel  not  ? 
Thy  "  Zion,"  though  homeless  and  humbled,  "  is  written," 

Thou  graciously  saidst,  "  in  remembrance  above ; " 
Her  walls  are  before  Thee,  §  and  now  that  she 's  smitten, 

She  turns  to  her  Maker,  and  sues  for  His  love. 

*  We  acknowledge,  0  Lord,  our  wickedness,  and  the  iniquity  of  our 
fathers. — Jer.  xiv.  20. 

f  I  have  forsaken  my  house,  I  have  left  my  heritage  —  they  have  made 
it  desolate.  —  Jer.  xii.  7,  11. 

%  And  he  brought  him  forth  abroad,  and  said,  Look  now  toward  heaven, 
and  tell  the  stars,  if  thou  art  able  to  number  them ;  and  he  said  unto  him, 
So  shall  thy  seed  be.  —  Gen.  xv.  5. 

§  Behold  I  have  graven  thee  upon  the  palms  of  my  hands ;  thy  walls  are 
continually  before  me.  —  ha.  xlix.  16. 


(87) 

Then,  Lord,  of  her  thousands,  if  here  is  one  trusting 

In  Thee,  that  would  come  in  contrition  alone, 
Wilt  thou  not  accept  him,  and  heal  the  heart  bursting 

"With  grief  for  its  guilt,  by  a  glance  from  the  throne ! 
I  search  for  the  Prince  of  mysterious  story,  — 

I  gaze  on  the  garden,  the  manger,  and  tree,  — 
The  tomb  of  his  victory  —  I  find  there  his  glory, 

But  Him  in  the  mercy  that  looks  upon  me. 


SHALL  WE  KNOW  EACH  OTHER  IN  HEAVEN? 

If,  in  that  world  of  spotless  light, 

Where  good  men  dwell  for  ever, 
Those,  with  whom  here  I  took  delight, 

Shall  greet  my  warm  love  never  — 
Its  joys,  which  eye  has  seen  not,  ear 

Heard  not,  will  be  most  precious ; 
Yet  loving  those,  the  true  loved  here, 

Would  make  heaven  more  delicious. 

If,  treading  yonder  crystal  street, 

Thoughts,  linked  with  time,  come  o'er  me, 
And  forms  of  earth  I  longed  to  greet 

Should  pass  unknown  before  me ; 
My  partner,  with  no  glance  of  love  — 

My  meek-eyed  child,  a  stranger  — 
Should  I  not  turn  from  heaven  above, 

A  sad  and  silent  ranger  ? 


@= 


(88) 

Thou,  who  didst  give  to  Love's  sweet  star, 

Below,  its  joyous  lustre, 
Canst  bid  its  glories  shine  afar 

Where  best  affections  cluster ; 
And  1 11  believe  the  bliss  whose  birth 

Thou  spakest  so  fair  and  vernal, 
Undimmed,  unfaded,  here  on  earth, 

Like  Thee,  will  be  eternal. 


WAIT,  WORKING ! 

"Wait  thou  on  Jehovah !  instructively  cries 

The  Psalmist  of  Israel  to  thee  — 
A  guide  to  thy  steps,  and  a  light  to  thine  eyes, 

In  darkness  and  doubt  he  will  be. 

Wait  thou  on  Jehovah  in  poverty's  hour  — 

Before  him  confidingly  stand 
In  meekness,  and  thee  will  the  arm  of  his  power 

Exalt,  to  inherit  the  land. 

Wait  thou  on  Jehovah,  when  wealth,  like  a  flood, 

Rolls  in,  and  still  consecrate  this, 
In  time  of  thy  stewardship,  wisely,  to  God, 

Lest  thou  his  inheritance  miss. 

Wait  thou  upon  Him  in  importunate  prayer, 

And  he  will  thy  sacrifice  own  — 
If  with  it 't  is  humbly  and  truly  thy  care 

That  labor  is  joined  at  the  throne. 


0= 


(89) 

For  poor  is  oblation  where  charity  's  not,  — 

Such  formally  waiting  in  vain 
"Will  be  found,  at  the  last,  on  thy  garment,  a  spot  — 

What  ocean  may  wash  out  the  stain  ? 

In  trials  and  Wessings  that  meet  thee,  do  thou, 

While  glad,  or  submissively  still, 
Rejoice  in  his  love,  to  his  providence  bow, 

And  work,  as  thou  wait  est  His  will. 

And  thou,  whose  delight  it  may  be,  for  thy  Lord, 
In  his  Sunday  school  still  to  be  spent  — 

While  scattering  there  the  good  seed  of  the  Word, 
Scan  truly  thy  wish  and  intent. 

Thou  teachest  another  —  has  Wisdom  thee  taught 

Thy  folly  and  weakness  to  see? 
And  hast  thou,  in  weeping  and  watchfulness,  brought 

Thy  charge  where  the  sinner  should  be  ? 

In  prayer  dost  thou  wait,  where,  in  secret,  each  face 

Of  thy  class  rises  up  to  thy  love  — 
And  toil  for  these  dear  ones,  believing  that  grace 

Will  guide  them  to  safety  above  ? 

Wait  in  all  on  Jehovah  !  not  passively  wait ; 

With  zeal  be  thou  girded  and  shod  — 
Sitting  down,  rising  up,  in  the  house,  in  the  gate, 

Oh,  work,  as  thou  tvaitest  on  God ! 

His  universe  serves  him ;  the  shining  ones  touch 
Their  harps,  as  they  wait  his  behest  — 

Obeyers,  while  waiting ;  we,  too,  may  be  such, 
Who  more  than  the  angels  are  blest. 


(90) 


THE  ADVENT. 

Why,  on  darkness  of  the  night, 
Streanieth  uncreated  light  ? 
Why,  above  the  Eastern  plains, 
Tremble  those  melodious  strains? 
Who  are  those  of  perfect  mould, 
Wearing  crowns  and  harps  of  gold  ? 
Why  is  stayed  each  eager  wing  ? 
What 's  the  glorious  song  they  sing  ? 
This  is  light  from  yonder  throne, 
These  are  strains  from  heaven  alone, 
These  the  errand  cherubim, 
These  the  praising  seraphim, 
And  their  song  is  of  the  plan 
So  just  to  God,  so  safe  to  man, 
And  of  Him,  who  diadem 
Leaving,  comes  to  Bethlehem, 
Mortals  rescuing,  sin-beguiled, 
"Mighty  God!  mysterious  Child!" 
Hark  !  in  symphony  they  play, 
Golden  strings  repeat  the  lay ; 
An  injured  God,  a  frowning  throne, 
Mercy  to  the  rebel  shown  ! 
Sweetly,  each  immortal  chord 
Tells  of  the  descended  Lord,  — 
The  bleeding  Lamb  an  offering  made, 
Earth  restored,  the  pardon  paid. 
Praise  Him  !  —  when  celestial  wires 
Waken,  where  are  earthly  choirs  ? 


(91) 

Praise  Him !  —  when  the  hosts  above 
Laud  Him,  where  is  mortal  love  ? 
Praise  Him !  praise  Him  !  who  hath  given 
Peace  on  earth,  and  joy  in  heaven. 


THE  VOICE. 

Oh  !  what  a  Voice  comes  in  the  still y  hush 

Of  solemn  twilight,  when  the  world's  loud  rush 

Is  silenced!  —  and  it  speaketh  sadly,  then, 

Of  hours  misspent,  of  folly  wrought  by  men. 

That  Voice  is  heard  amid  the  busy  din 

Of  life.     In  toil  and  pleasure,  deeds  of  sin 

Long  since  forgotten,  as  accusers,  come 

Up  to  remembrance ;  awful  is  their  sum  ! 

That  Voice  !  —  where  comes  it  not  ?  —  take  wings, 

take  wings, 
And  still  it  follows  with  its  tale  of  things 
Thou  lovest  not  to  dwell  on,  —  in  thick  night, 
Day.  distance,  yea,  even  now,  unto  thy  flight 
To  dreary  solitude  and  hurried  throng,  — 
Telling  that  God  is  rigid,  and  thou  art  wrong. 


(92) 


LAUREL  HILL   CEMETERY; 

Near  Philadelphia. 

When  my  spirit  leaves  the  clay, 
And  the  holy  priest  doth  say 
Over  Hie,  in  humble  trust, 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust," 
And  this  mortal  —  tribute  paid  — 
In  its  narrow  cell  is  laid, 
Till  it  gladly,  quitting  tombs, 
Immortality  assumes,  — 
Be  that  refuge  of  the  weary 
In  this  lovely  cemetery, 
Or  in  scenes  inviting  one 
To  repose,  his  labor  done, 
As  these  kindly  do  invite 
Me  to  tarry  death's  long  night. 
Let  me  take  my  slumber,  then, 
Far  from  haunts  of  busy  men, 
In  a  spot  as  fair  as  this, 
Where  the  playful  breezes  kiss 
Early  blossoms,  fragrant  flowers. 
Let  me,  in  such  quiet  bowers, 
Find  at  last  my  resting  place. 
Flesh  to  grave,  and  soul  to  grace  ! 
'Mid  such  peaceful  Sabbath  reigning, 
'Mid  such  melancholy  plaining 
Of  sweet  birds  above  my  head, 
Would  I  tarry  when  I  'm  dead,  — 


(93) 

"Would  I  take  my  solemn  ease, 
Till  old  Time  his  centuries 
Endeth.     Let  me  in  such  ground, 
When  the  world  breaks  up,  be  found. 
Here  I'd  rather  choose  to  lie 
Than  in  crowded  charnels ;  I 
Shudder  at  the  thought  of  fingers 
Rudely  handling  that  which  lingers 
Of  the  mouldering  form,  and  tossing 
Relics  round,  with  jest  and  scoffing, 
As  if  they  were  vilest  earth,  — 
Making  of  corruption  mirth. 
Far  from  violated  tombs, 
Lay  me  where  the  laurel  blooms,  — 
Where  the  murmuring  river  flows 
With  the  cadence  of  repose. 

Like  a  hermit  would  I  steal 
Hither,  where  the  vexing  wheel 
Of  the  toiler  is  not  heard,  — 
Where  the  carol  of  the  bird 
Mingles  with  the  zephyrs'  talk,  — 
Where,  at  noon,  the  shady  walk 
Beckons  pilgrims,  —  where  is  found 
Room  for  lodgers  of  the  ground  ;  — 
Where  no  sullen  city  wall 
Casts  its  shadows,  like  a  pall,  — 
Where  no  sacrilegious  stir 
Mocketh  at  the  slumberer,  — 
Where  the  friend  may  sigh  alone 
Over  the  recording  stone, 
And  lament  of  love  be  given 
Only  unto  pitying  Heaven. 


(94) 

In  these  groves  where  Wisdom  museth, 

In  this  spot  Religion  chooseth, 

Let  me  my  appointed  time 

Wait,  till  stars  no  longer  chime,  — 

Till  the  music  of  the  spheres 

Stops  forever,  and  the  ears 

Of  the  breakers  from  the  tomb 

Hear  the  trumpet's  call  to  doom. 


HYMN  TO  GOD  ON  THOUGHTS. 

It  may  be,  from  outbreaking  sin 

Thy  mercy  hath  me  kept ; 
I  fear  me  lest  o'er  faults,  within, 

My  spirit  long  hath  slept. 
Faults  known  to  Thee  —  forgot  by  me ; 

All  unconfessed,  unwept. 

How  far  I  am  from  outward  act 

Of  grievous  error  free, 
Unstained  by  damning  vice,  —  the  fact 

My  fellow  men  may  see; 
Not  these,  not  these  ;  —  what  I  deplore 

Is  scanned  alone  by  Thee. 

And  such  —  not  all  their  wild  extent 

Can  I  of  surety  know, 
How  with  my  beating  heart  are  blent 

The  pulses  of  the  foe; 
Who  courses  in  my  purple  flood, 

And  taints  it  in  its  flow. 


H 


(95) 

Could  I  escape  Thought's  dreadful  power, 

Nor  creep  to  death  its  slave, 
I  'd  purchase  one  such  angel-hour 

TTith  life,  and  hail  the  grave ; 
Or,  doomed  to  longer  pilgrimage, 

Life's  many  woes  would  brave. 

Could  in  these  bitter  waters  be 
Some  branch  of  healing  cast, 

I  'd  murmur  not,  though  yet  by  me 
A  desert 's  to  be  past 

Of  care  and  toil  —  not  dreary  sin  — 
To  Canaan's  land  at  last. 

JT  is  not  of  sickness  I  complain, 
Though  this  hath  made  me  moan ; 

Bereavement  wakes  no  angry  strain, 
Though  this,  0  God,  I  've  known ! 

I  'd  bear  these  chiders,  as  I  've  borne, 
For  these  are  all  thine  own. 

'T  is  not  that  thou  hast  scourged  away 

My  early,  pleasant  schemes, 
And  on  my  plans  of  riper  day 

Hast  written,  u  empty  dreams  ;  " 
And  taught  me  earth's  enchantment  is 

Far,  far  from  what  it  seems. 

'T  is  not  that  to  hope's  flower  of  pride, 

Which  grew  within  my  door, 
A  worm  was  sent ;  the  floweret  died  — 

And  joyful  hope  is  o'er. 
He  whom  I  love  is  shipwrecked,  tossed 

On  seas  without  a  shore. 


(96) 

'T  is  not  that,  daily,  I  may  see 

How  silent  grief  drinks  up 
Her  life,  who  is  my  life  to  me, 

Who  took  with  me  that  cup, 
And  drained  it  to  its  dregs  of  pain ;  — 

0,few  such  horrors  sup  ! 

I,  foolish  wanderer,  truly  know 

That  these  are  well  for  me ; 
These  are  but  blessed  guides  to  show 

The  path  that  leads  to  Thee  — 
Yea,  in  my  greatest  grief  I  count 

My  greatest  joy  to  see. 

But 't  is  vain  Thoughts  that  me  perplex ; 

And  sinful  Thoughts,  that  rise 
Like  clouds  of  troops,  all  armed,  to  vex 

My  journey  to  the  skies. 
O,  how  they  muster,  when  my  soul 

On  heaven  would  fix  her  eyes ! 

And  when  I  come  to  Thee  in  prayer, 
Hell  knows  the  favored  hour ; 

Lo,  all  its  legion  Thoughts  are  there, 
Impatient  to  devour ! 

Yea,  weeping  at  my  Saviour's  Cross, 
I  feel  their  cruel  power. 

My  God !  I  cry  to  Thee  in  pain ; 

Thou  art  my  hope  at  last ; 
Free  me  from  the  accursed  chain, 

So  strongly  round  me  cast,  — 
And  Thee  I  '11  praise  along  my  way, 

And  when  my  journey 's  past. 


(97) 

Yet,  "  if  to  suit  some  wise  design," 

I  must  be  longer  tried ; 
And  this  stern  trouble  must  be  mine, 

Perhaps  to  humble  pride  — 
Help !  Thou,  who,  in  Gethsemane, 

Temptation,  sore,  defied. 


PALESTINE. 

Long  hath  the  Crescent's  glittering  sign 

On  Salem's  temple  shone ; 
Long  hath  Jehovah's  awful  shrine 

Stood  desolate  and  lone. 

The  tents  of  Midian  tribes  unblest 
On  Shinar's  plains  are  spread ; 

And  wandering  feet  have  rudely  prest 
The  soil  where  Jesus  bled. 

But  Shiloh  comes  to  bless  the  land, 

And  Israel's  tribes  restore  ; 
Lo !  Edom,  with  Assyria's  band, 

On  Calvary  shall  adore. 

Fair  Lebanon  shall  hear  his  voice, 
And  lands  where  Jordan  flows, 

With  Sharon's  desert  shall  rejoice, 
And  blossom  as  the  rose. 


(98) 

No  more  shall  Zion's  daughter  mourn, 

Or  captive  Judah  sigh ; 
Jehovah  shall  her  walls  adorn, 

And  bring  his  ransomed  nigh. 


AN  OATH  ON  WOMAN'S  LIPS! 

Though  pouting  out  with  youth  and  health, 
'T  would  blast  their  rich  and  tempting  red ; 

I  cannot  join  such  living  wealth 

Of  sweets  with  what  is  sour  and  dead. 

An  oath  on  Woman's  lips  !  —  let  man 
Touch  rudely,  strings  that  jar  above,  — 

She  snaps  the  cords  and  breaks  the  plan 
Of  Heaven,  by  other  word  than  Love. 

An  oath  on  Woman's  lips  !  —  in  vain 
Her  eyes  are  starry  worlds  of  light ; 

Her  voice  as  when  soft  lyres  complain, 
Her  skin  of  the  celestial  white ; 

'T  is  lost  to  me.     She  only  seems 

The  twofold  wonder  fables  tell, 
That  charm  and  fright  the  sleeper's  dreams  — 

An  angel  and  a  fiend  of  hell. 


(99) 


STAND  AND  SEE! 

"And  Moses  said  unto  the  people,  '  Fear  ye  not ;  stand  still,  and  see  the 
salvation  of  the  Lord,  -which  he  •will  show  you  to-day.'"  —  Exodus, 
xiv.  13. 

Stand  ye,  on  whom,  in  duty's  path, 

Innumerous  open  dangers  press ; 
On  whom  awaits  some  secret  scath, 

Along  the  howling  wilderness ; 
Stand  still,  and  trust,  and  so  shall  ye 
The  fiery  Cloud  and  Pillar  see. 

Stand  ye,  on  whose  devoted  head 

Stern  poverty  in  tempest  lowers  ; 
Or  chained  to  wasting  sickness'  bed, 

Or  counting  melancholy  hours, 
Or  shedding  tears  on  love's  lone  grave, — 
Stand,  and  behold  an  Arm  to  save. 

Stand  ye,  between  whose  soul  and  Heaven 

Is  interposed  the  veil  of  fear, 
That  shuts  out  all  the  glory  given 

From  God,  to  bless  his  children  here. 
0,  wherefore  did  ye  doubt  his  grace  ? 
Look  up  and  see  your  Father's  face. 

Stand  ye,  of  every  name,  who  wear 
The  colors  of  our  common  King  — 

His  soldiers,  hemmed,  and  faint,  prepare 
To  see  Him  blest  deliverance  bring. 

Up !  through  this  Red  Sea  take  your  way, 

And  see  Salvation's  work  to-day. 


(100) 

And  stand,  my  spirit  I  —  none  like  thee, 
Methinks,  so  apt  to  fear  and  fall ; 

Rest  on  His  mercy,  who  can  free 
And  ransom  from  the  sinner's  thrall. 

Who  bids  His  goodness  pass  before 

The  heart  that  pants  to  love  him  more. 

Yet  one  more  wilderness  thou  'It  pass, 
And  Mercy  will  conduct  thee  through, 

Till  gladly  on  the  Sea  of  Glass 

Thou  'It  stand,  and  serve,  and  worship,  too. 

Till  then,  the  victory  expect, 

That  crowns  the  host  of  God's  Elect. 


FALL  ON  US  AND  HIDE  US! 

When  the  great  captains  and  the  mighty  men 

Wail  at  the  Judgement,  and,  to  shun  the  ken 

Of  searching  Justice,  call  on  rocks  aloud  — 

Tea,  when  earth's  conquerors,  the  tall  and  proud, 

Shrink  from  His  coming,  and,  as  mountains  quake, 

Their  prayer  to  them  in  agony  do  make,  — 

Whence  is  the  terror  ?     Wherefore  quail  these  tremblers  ? 

Whose  scorching  glances  trouble  the  dissemblers  ? 

Is  it  for  Him  who  spake  on  Sinai  ?  —  Fear 

The  guilty  men,  those  guarding  lightnings  here  ? 

No !  —  thought  dwells  not  upon  Jehovah  now ; 

They  heed  not  kindlings  of  the  Father's  brow ; 

Too  well  they  know,  the  anger  that  shall  damn 

To  outer  darkness  —  cometh  from  the  Lamb! 


(101) 


THE  WIDOW'S  MITE. 

"The  Widow's  Mite!"  —  who  ever  saw  — 
Since  Jesus  saw  —  that  wondrous  sight, 
Fulfilling  all  the  royal  law 
To  God  and  Man,  "  The  Widow's  Mite?'; 

And  who  for  fame,  or  who  for  love 

To  body,  intellect,  or  soul, 
To  man  below,  or  God  above, 

Has  yielded,  since  that  hour,  the  whole  ? 

Not  one  !  not  one !  —  the  Jewish  age 

Has  only  such  example  shown ; 
It  stands,  a  marvel,  on  the  page 

Of  eighteen  hundred  years,  alone. 

"  She,  of  her  penury,  gave  her  all," 

And  shrank,  in  silence,  from  the  crowd ; 
Thou  canst  thy  gifts  by  hundreds  call, 
And  set  thy  name  among  the  proud. 

Yet  give !  —  but  on  thy  deed  do  not  — 
So  often  done  —  a  falsehood  write  ; 

Nor  to  foul  avarice  add  the  blot 

Of  naming  it,  "  The  Widow's  Mite." 

Nor  deem  the  blazoned  gift  of  gold, 
Or  paltry  alms  that  fears  the  light, 

For  "  blest  memorial "  will  be  told, 
Or  thought  of,  as  "  The  Widow's  Mite  ! " 


9* 


(102) 


WHO   CAEES  FOR  JACK? 

Who  cares  for  Jack  ?  —  Not  one,  not  one ; 

Each  has  his  selfish  care,  — 
But  for  the  friendless  Sailor,  none 

Kind  word  or  thought  can  spare. 
Who  cares  that  still  alone  is  his 

The  ocean's  rugged  way  ; 
By  night  unquiet  rest,  and  toil 

And  bitterness  by  day  ! 

Who  cares  for  Jack  ?  —  he  has  no  friend 

To  soothe  his  weary  woe ; 
If  tears  are  his,  no  heart  is  his 

On  which  those  tears  may  flow. 
Who  cares  when  pallid  sickness  bends 

On  him  its  angry  frown, 
Or  when  from  the  ship's  plank  he  sinks 

A  thousand  fathoms  down  ? 

Who  cares  for  Jack,  —  his  voyage  done  ?  — 

The  eager  landlord  cares  ; 
And  to  the  utmost  farthing  strips 

The  victim  of  his  snares ; 
Yes,  there  are  spoils  along  the  deeps, 

And  ocean  has  its  shoals,  — 
But  the  dry  land  has  more  than  these  — 

The  hopeless  wreck  of  souls. 

Hallo !  hallo !  the  flag  is  up, 

'T  is  nailed  to  yonder  mast ! 
Thank  God !  the  Sailor's  battered  hulk 

Is  near  The  Bethel  cast. 


=Q 


(103) 

Hallo !  hallo !  a  friendly  port, 

From  cruel  landsharks  free ; 
Now,  comrade,  bear  a  hand,  and  look ! 

The  Sailor's  Home  for  thee. 

Here  thou  wilt  meet  with  noble  hearts, 

A  willing  mess  wilt  share, 
And  none  to  mock  thy  true  attempt 

To  seek  thy  God  in  prayer. 
Who  cares  for  Jack !     The  proud  may  not  — 

Yet  when  seas  pass  away 
He,  with  a  starry  crown,  may  shine 

More  bright  and  pure  than  they. 


CHILDREN'S  WORSHIP. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

O,  tell  me,  while  the  blessed  ones 

Their  wings  in  worship  fold, 
Discoursing  words  of  melody 

To  instruments  of  gold  — 
While  thousand  thousands  pass  the  praise, 

Where  kneeling  ranks  are  seen, 
And  voices,  as  the  talk  of  seas, 

Are  heard  the  songs  between  — 
Why  should  the  Saviour  turn  aside 

From  notes  that  ravish  so, 
And  hearken,  while  inferior  chords 

Sound  up  from  earth  below  ? 


(104) 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Once,  to  the  Lord,  in  Palestine, 

Was  sung  an  infant  hymn, 
When  children  of  Jerusalem 

Abashed  the  Sanhedrim, 
And  owned  the  lowly  Teacher,  who, 

Incarnate,  was  from  high, 
Whom  Jewish  men  nailed  up  in  scorn, 

With  murderers  to  die. 

Now,  Lord  of  Glory,  to  His  ear 

Well  pleasing  is  the  song 
That  rises  with  the  Sabbath  sun, 

From  childhood's  happy  throng ; 
For  He  that  spans  the  rolling  worlds, 

And  marks  the  seraph's  way, 
Will  not  disdain  when  infant  years 

His  perfect  will  obey. 

But  kindly  through  disparting  skies 

His  shining  way  he  rends, 
To  hear  the  early  hymn  that  with 

His  upper  music  blends ; 
Descending  to  the  lowly  praise 

That  breathes  from  lips  of  love, 
Unmindful  of  the  song  that  breaks 

Around  His  throne  above. 


FIRST  AND   SECOND   VOICES. 

Then,  while  in  blessedness  we  walk 
Where  angels  never  trod, 

We  '11  give,  with  holy  cheerfulness, 
The  humble  heart  to  God. 


(105) 

On  this  the  Saviour  looketh  down 
From  place  of  cherubim, 

And  for  this  worship  leaves  awhile 
The  everlasting  hymn. 


THE   SAILOR'S   BETHEL. 

I  bowed  within  the  house  of  prayer 

That  lifts  a  decent  dome, 
Whose  starry  standard  told  me  where 

The  Sailor  finds  a  home. 

And  there  knelt  weather-beaten  forms, 

The  last  of  many  a  crew  — 
And  cheerful  youth,  who  scarce  the  storms 

Of  cold  existence  knew. 

The  preacher  prayed,  —  Jack  dashed  the  tear 

From  off  his  rugged  face ; 
The  preacher  plead,  —  Jack  smiled,  for  Fear 

To  Hope  had  given  place. 

I've  worshipped  where  cathedrals  flung 

Their  arches  o'er  the  proud ; 
I've  listened,  when  to  organ  rung 

The  anthem  of  the  crowd ;  — 

But  never  in  the  brilliant  aisle 

Where  rings  and  diamonds  blazed  — 

And  each  vast  pillar  of  the  pile 
Sublimely  stood  upraised,  — 


(106) 

Such  fellowship  of  heaven  have  felt, 
As  when,  beneath  that  dome, 

With  Ocean's  hardy  sons  I  knelt, 
And  found  myself  at  home. 


HIS  PATH  IS  THE   OCEAN,  HE  MAKETH  HIS  DWELLING. 

His  path  is  the  ocean,  he  maketh  his  dwelling 

Where  tempests  are  cradled,  and  winds  rudely  blow ; 

His  joys,  like  the  billows  he  buffets,  now  swelling, 
And  now  like  to  them  sunk  forgotten  below. 

On  land  with  his  messmates  to  share  he  is  willing, 

By  veterans  in  wickedness  easily  led ; 
He 's  fleeced,  cast  adrift,  when  is  gone  the  last  shilling, 

The  sky  for  Ins  covering,  the  pavement  his  bed. 

By  perils,  by  watchings,  by  misery  broken, 

Of  the  world  he  is  weary,  though  few  are  his  years ; 

Does  he  sigh  for  a  better  !  —  to  him  none  has  spoken 
Of  the  clime  where  forever  are  wiped  away  tears. 

In  penury  now,  and  in  dread  of  the  morrow, 

He 's  friendless,  forsaken,  and  haggard,  and  mean ; 

The  jest  of  the  thoughtless,  he  lingers  in  sorrow, 
Till  Death  kindly  enters  and  closes  the  scene. 

And  such  is  the  Mariner !  —  such  was  he,  rather, 
Till  justice  had  taught  us  our  duty  to  him ; 

Now  gladly  and  freely,  life's  comforts  we  gather 
Around  his  rough  course,  so  long  dreary  and  dim. 


(107) 

Life's  comforts !  —  0  yes,  and  to  him  shall  be  given, 
From  hearty  benevolence  here  running  o'er 

The  Chart  that  directs  the  poor  wanderer  to  heaven  - 
The  Star  that  shines  out  on  Eternity's  shore. 

In  storms  shall  rise  sweetly  the  Sailor's  devotion, 
His  song  in  the  calm  of  the  beautiful  sea, 

In  Bethels  ashore,  in  his  toil  on  the  ocean, 
To  God,  who  the  God  of  the  lowly  will  be. 


NONE  SAVED  BY  MY  CAKE. 

The  judgement  day!  the  judgement  day! 
When  flaming  worlds  will  haste  away,  — 
If  mine  it  is  that  day  to  stand, 
A  ransomed  one,  at  Thy  right  hand,  — 

How  could  I  gaze  upon  the  throng 
That  wake  on  golden  lyres  the  song, 
If  none,  that  day,  the  rapture  share, 
Led  by  my  love  and  labor  there  ? 

While  spirits,  each  to  each,  would  tell 
Of  weal  and  woe  that  here  befell, 
Should  I  not,  from  the  frowning  throne, 
Wander  in  heaven,  unblest,  alone  ? 

While  life  is  lent,  before  that  day 
Draws  on,  when  toil  is  past  away, 
Let  me,  well  learned  the  heavenly  road, 
Lead  others  the  same  path  to  God. 


9 

(108) 


THE  STAR  OF  JESUS. 

When  o'er  long  night  the  bursting  dawn 

In  youthful  bloom  appeared  — 
When  angels  hymned  the  rising  morn, 

And  songs  in  heaven  were  heard  — 
Amid  the  burning  orbs  that  gemmed 

Jehovah's  viewless  throne, 
In  native  glory  diademed, 

One  Star  was  seen  alone. 

O'er  Palestine,  fair  Solyma, 

Benignantly  serene, 
Precursor  of  a  brighter  day, 

The  harbinger  was  seen. 
The  captive  saw  the  symbol  shine  — 

His  broken  fetters  fell ; 
The  Shepherd  marked  the  peerless  sign 

That  told  Immanuel. 

In  latter  time,  we  view  it  burn 

With  undiminished  ray ; 
It  leads  the  Pagan's  glad  return, 

It  cheers  the  wanderer's  way. 
On  sea  and  land,  at  home,  afar, 

Its  beam  to  Peace  inclines ; 
From  East  to  West,  the  holy  Star, 

The  Star  of  Jesus  shines. 


(109) 


FOR  AMERICA. 

God  —  of  earth  the  only  Ruler  — 
Why  should  earth  forget  thee  so ! 

God  of  nations,  shall  the  nations 
Thee,  their  only  Ruler,  know  ? 

Old  dominions,  proud  dominions  — 
How  they  rose,  the  boast  of  men ! 

But  they  knew  not  God,  and  therefore 
Sank  they  into  dust  again. 

Where  art  thou,  imperial  Tyre? 

City  from  the  ocean  won  — 
Hundred-gated  Thebes  and  Memphis, 

Nineveh  and  Babylon  ? 

God,  Bow  slow  to  learn  are  nations  ! 

Else  should  we  have  spelled  thy  Name ; 
In  their  end  have  read  thine  anger ;  — 

Grant  that  ours  be  not  the  same. 

New  Republics,  tall  Republics, 

Homes  of  free  and  fearless  men  — 

As  the  ancient,  proud  dominions, 
Thou  wilt  sink  to  dust  again, 

If  they  know  Thee  not.  —  0  Ruler, 

Let  not  ours  forget  Thee  so ; 
God  of  nations,  let  our  nation 

Thee,  its  only  Ruler,  know ! 


10 


(110) 


THE  FLAG  OF  THE  CROSS. 

Beneath  thy  folds,  0  holy  Cross ! 

The  gallant  vessels  trimly  go ; 
Joy  at  the  helm  —  delay  or  loss 

Such  heavenly  voyage  may  never  know. 

The  ships  of  Tarshish  trooping  first, 

As  clouds  and  homeward  doves  are  seen ; 

The  leaping  Hebrew  treads  the  dust 
Of  long  lost,  lovely  Palestine. 

I  see  thee  waving  from  the  prow 
Where  herald-feet  in  beauty  are ; 

To  dying  nations  bearing  now 

The  healing  beams  of  Jacob's  Star. 

A  thousand  thousand  masts  display 
To  wondering  realms,  thy  sacred  sign ; 

I  see  it  stream  o'er  sea  and  bay, 
From  either  Arctic  to  the  Line. 

I  see  thee  float  where  warriors  rushed, 
At  hell's  alarum,  to  the  strife  ;  — 

And  rusting  swords,  and  tumults  hushed, 
Tell  only  of  the  Prince  of  Life. 


Foes  tremble,  as  from  tower  to  tower 
They  mark  thy  glorious  signal  fly ; 


(Ill) 

Saints  upward  look  ;  they  know  the  hour 
Of  their  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

0  God,  the  hour  speed  on  !  speed  on ! 

When  sin's  tall  wave  shall  wildly  toss 
Thy  Church  no  more ;  when,  conflict  done, 

She  '11  sing  of  victory  'neath  the  Cross. 


THE  WARRIOR-SONG  OF  PRAYER. 

Come  Warriors  !  to  the  earnest  fray  ; 

Enlisted  ye  for  life, 
Ye  must  be  up  for  Christ,  to-day ; 

All  eager  for  the  strife. 

Your  swords  all  keen,  your  swords  all  bright, 

Your  breast-plates  girded  on  — 
Gather  ye  to  the  glorious  fight ; 

A  Kingdom  must  be  won. 

Come  on,  as  mail-clad  veterans  do, 

And  let  the  work  be  warm  ; 
Your  weapons  are  not  frail  nor  few,  — 

Take  heaven  itself  by  storm. 

No  fear !  —  who  fears  ?  —  God'3  tallest  towers, 

'T  is  yours,  in  faith,  to  scale ; 
And  He,  himself,  will  nerve  your  powers 

Against  them  to  prevail. 


(112) 

In  His  Name  venture  rock  and  crag ; 

The  coward  only  falls  ;  — 
Come  on !  He  's  honored  when  your  flj 

Is  planted  on  his  walls. 

Yes,  to  the  shout  of  victor-cheer, 
That,  conquerors,  ye  shall  bring  — 

God  will  bestow  approving  ear, 
And  vanquished  Heaven  will  sing ! 


THE  ANGEL'S  WING. 

There  is  a  German  tradition,  that  when  a  sndden  silence  takes  place  in  a 
company,  an  angel  at  that  moment  makes  a  circuit  among  them,  and  the 
first  person  who  breaks  the  silence  is  supposed  to  have  been  touched  by 
the  wing  of  the  passing  seraph. 

And  why  should  wisdom  smile  at  this  ? 

Are  not  those  perfect  beings  nigh, 
To  witness  and  to  share  our  bliss, 

To  hear  and  hush  the  secret  sigh  ? 
Yes,  they  may  Heaven's  solace  bring, 
Then  scorn  not  thou,  the  Angel's  Wing  ! 

Thou  !  who,  alone,  thyself  dost  deem 

A  solitary  in  thy  grief  — 
List !  soft  as  footfall  of  a  dream, 

Comes  one  to  bear  thee  sweet  relief; 
And  fled  is  all  thy  hoarded  care, 
The  passing  Seraph's  Wing  is  there ! 


(113) 

Thou,  who,  forgiven,  dost  possess 
The  penitent's  intense  delight, 

When  the  dark  cloud  of  guilt's  distress 
Reveals  to  thee  its  edge  of  light,  — 

Think !  as  unhallowed  tempests  fly, 

Thy  soul  is  touched,  the  Wing  is  nigh ! 

And  thou,  of  contemplative  mood, 
Who  dost  at  eve  in  wild  woods  stray, 

Where  nought  of  this  world  may  intrude, 
When  fancy  might  in  others  play, 

And  hearest  the  voice  that  zephyr  flings  — 

No  !  't  is  the  rush  of  Angel  Wings. 

Oh,  I  have  paused  a  space,  as  't  were, 
Bewildering  thoughts  to  gather  up,  — 

To  put  aside  the  draught  of  care, 
And  taste  of  Mind's  exalted  cup ; 

Nor  knew  what  o'er  my  soul  could  bring 

Such  calmness,  was  the  Seraph's  Wing. 

When  brooding  tempters  caused  me  shame, 

And  in  its  company  of  sin 
My  spirit  sat  —  the  Angel  came, 

And  swept  with  Wings  the  heart  within ; 
A  moment  made  its  circuit  there, 
And  broke  my  silence  into  prayer. 

I  knelt  beside  my  precious  boy, 

Who  went,  at  childhood's  fairy  time, 

My  hope,  my  life,  my  being's  joy  — 
From  this  to  Love's  unclouded  clime ; 

And,  while  around  wept  pitying  men, 

Rejoiced  —  the  Angel  touched  me  then ! 


10* 


(114) 

And  at  my  own  departing  hour, 
When  earth  recedes  and  follies  fly, 

To  comfort  me  with  heavenly  power 
Descend!  some  herald  of  the  sky  — 

And  while  of  victory  I  sing, 

Bear  me  away  on  upward  Wing ! 


REVIVAL. 

In  our  secret  souls  we  know  it, 
Griefs  confess  and  joy  doth  show  it, 
Lowly  sigh  and  quiet  tear 
Tell,  the  Holy  Ghost  is  here  ! 

Simeon's  song  from  old  men,  now, 
Lisping  praise  from  children,  now, 
Young  men  bowed,  the  influence  feeling, 
Maidens,  in  their  meekness,  kneeling  — 

Faltering  hymn,  and  broken  prayer, 
Moanings  of  the  heart's  despair, 
Peace,  revealed,  of  pardoned  sin, 
Tell,  the  Spirit  is  within ! 


=© 


(115) 


MINISTERING. 

"  If  Jesus  were  still  a  man  of  sorrows,  not  having  where  to  lay  his  head, 
Piety  might  spread  him  a  table  and  provide  him  a  home,  Affection  might 
weave  for  him  the  seamless  garment,  or  break  the  alabaster  box  of  oint- 
ment of  spikenard,  very  precious,  for  his  burial.  Poverty  herself  might 
wash  his  feet  with  her  tears,  and  wipe  them  with  her  hair.  Wealth  might 
find  him  a  new  sepulchre,  hewn  in  the  rock,  where  never  man  was  yet  laid. 
And  as  a  final  act  of  homage,  Gratitude  might  bring  her  spices  and  oint- 
ments, about  a  hundred  pounds  weight,  as  the  manner  was  of  the  Jews  to 
bury."  —  Decapolis. 

0  Saviour  !  wert  thou  now  below, 
'T  would  be  my  joy  to  follow  thee  ; 

Where  thou  wouldst  lead,  I  'd  freely  go, 
And  naught  should  keep  my  Lord  from  me. 

1  ?d  haste  to  serve  thee ;  and  to  wait 

In  humblest  duty  at  thy  feet, 
Prefer  to  thrones  of  mortal  state, 
Or  e'en  a  burning  seraph's  seat. 

How  sweet  to  minister  to  Thee, 

Who  once  our  earth  in  pity  trod ! 
How  blest,  a  household  guest,  to  see 

The  Man  of  grief,  the  very  God ! 

Yet  though  I  cannot  do  as  they 

Who  waited  on  thy  earthly  need  — 

To  serve  thy  heavenly  state  I  may ; 
And  minister  to  thee  indeed. 


(116) 

I  may  bring  thee  the  soul  undone, 

That  ne'er  before  had  sought  thy  face ; 

I  may  win  home  a  wretched  one, 

Who  far  has  wandered  from  thy  grace. 

Thou  wouldst  be  honored  more,  by  toil 
Of  mine  to  save  some  erring  soul, 

Than  if  I  could  the  countless  spoil 
Of  worlds  submit  to  thy  control. 

Thou  wouldst  discern  more  real  love 
In  act  of  mine,  the  lost  to  gain, 

Than  if  such  praise  as  peals  above 
I  gave  thee  —  could  I  peal  such  strain. 

Then  let  me  ne'er  lament,  that  I 
May  nothing  do  for  thy  dear  Name, 

While  deathless  ones  are  near  to  die, 
While  sons  of  God  are  heirs  of  shame. 


MINISTERS. 

He  who  medicines  the  Sick 

Will  himself  diseased  be, 
If  for  self  he  use  no  trick 

Baffling  the  infirmity ; 
Lo  !  his  patient  laughs  at  Death  ; 

Lo  !  the  victory  he  doth  win  ; 
All  the  while  Fever's  breath 

Unaware,  he  sucketh  in. 

He  who  ministers  to  hearts 
Rotten  with  infectious  guilt, 


(117) 

Sees  decay  his  own  good  parts, 
Sees  his  wounded  graces  wilt, 

If  unwonted  Unction's  power 
Feedeth  not  the  holy  flame ;  — 

Woe  for  self  the  evil  hour 

Given  to  others'  Sin  and  Shame  ! 

He  who  soundeth  Mercy's  call, 

And  doth  others9  hearts  unlock 
"While  his  own  is  stupid,  shall 

Find  his  own  become  a  rock ! 
He  who  other  vineyard  keepeth, 

—  Noting  half  the  Master's  rule  — 
O'er  his  own  —  a  sluggard  —  sleepeth, 

Cheats  himself,  and  is  a  fool ! 


ANNUAL  CONCERT  OF  PRAYER  FOR  THE  WORLD. 

Now  up  !  ye  that  have  interest 

In  Heaven's  holy  love,  — 
Ye  that  for  Zion  travail  sore, 

Look  to  her  Help  above. 
And  up  !  ye  Christian  men  and  true, 

And  to  the  throne  repair, 
And  storm  and  take  it  in  the  bold 

Conspiracy  of  prayer. 

Not  for  a  single  household,  Christ 

Calls  out  his  ranks  to  day ; 
Not  for  a  town  or  province  ye 

Are  marshaled  up  to  pray ; 


(118) 

The  trumpet  is  for  mighty  lands ; 

And  we  have  flag  unfurled, 
And  girded  sword,  by  countless  bands, 

In  struggle  for  a  world. 

And  not  alone,  or  few,  are  we ; 

From  sultry  Orient's  shore, 
A  cry  has  reached  God's  majesty 

That  rent  the  West  before. 
And  where  Pacific's  corals  lie, 

From  Smyrna  and  Japan, 
From  London  and  Jerusalem, 

The  cry  goes  up  for  man. 

Not  prayer  and  praise  alone  !  —  your  gifts 

Upon  the  altar  lay ; 
Who  gives  not,  cannot  for  a  world 

Importunately  pray. 
Give  of  abundance ;  give  ye,  too, 

By  poverty  opprest ; 
Here,  if  at  all,  the  widow's  mite 

Hath  honor  o'er  the  rest. 

Up !  ye  that  signs  discern,  in  crowds  ; 

There's  muttering  in  the  air  ; 
Up !  for  the  bow  is  on  the  clouds, 

The  storm  has  past  at  prayer. 
And  while  the  worldling  asks  for  wealth, 

Ambition  for  its  goal, 
We,  at  that  open  Mercy  seat, 

Will  wrestle  for  the  soul. 


(119) 


THE  CLEANSING. 

"Jesus  went  up  to  Jerusalem,  and  found  in  the  temple  those  that  sold 
oxen,  and  sheep,  and  doves,  and  the  changers  of  money  sitting;  and  when 
he  had  made  a  scourge  of  small  cords,  he  drove  them  all  out  of  the  temple, 
and  the  sheep  and  the  oxen ;  and  poured  out  the  changers'  money,  and 
overthrew  the  tables;  and  said  unto  those  that  sold  doves,  Take  these 
things  hence." — John  ii.  13:  16. 

Messiah  saw  within 

The  holy  court 
Of  his  own  Temple,  grievous  sin, 

Traffic  and  mummery  and  sport. 

The  money  changers  sat, 

Watching  for  gain, 
Stout  oxen,  sheep,  lambs,  sleek  and  fat, 

That  should  in  sacrifice  be  slain. 

He  drove  out  beast  and  men 

Forth  to  the  day  ; 
And  to  the  fair  dove-sellers  then 

Said,  gently,  "  Take  these  things  away." 

How  could  a  corded  whip 

Expel  those  thence, 
Wielded  by  one,  —  and  not  a  lip 

Move,  nor  an  arm  in  fierce  defence  ? 

'T  was  not  the  feeble  rod 

That  made  the  rout  : 
They  saw  his  eye  —  they  knew  the  God,  — 

The  present  God,  then  flashing  out! 


(120) 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE'S  PRAYER. 

0  God,  that  I  no  longer  lie 

In  horrid  depths  of  sin  and  shame, 
Degraded,  reckless,  ruined  —  I 

Owe  unto  thee.  —  I  bless  thy  Name ! 
My  fellow-men  had  cast  me  out 
To  perish ;  and  the  brutal  shout 
"Was  all  I  heard  to  comfort  me. 

1  saw  but  scorn,  —  I  worship  Thee ! 

There  's  joy  where  rained  but  tears  before ; 

This  withered  heart  revives  !  —  't  is  warm ! 
Long  tossed,  I  touch  at  last  the  shore, 

And  from  my  soul  has  passed  the  storm. 
My  wife  !  —  she  never  lived  till  now ! 
My  girl !  —  ha !  here  's  a  quiet  brow  ; 
My  boy,  with  love  above  his  years, 
A  father's  frown  no  longer  fears. 


Restored,  I  take  his  lawful  place, 

Who  well  fulfils  great  Nature's  plan ; 
I  tremble  at  no  mortal's  face ; 

I  write  myself,  to-day,  A  man  ! 
Whereas  in  sin  I  once  was  lost, 
A  foolish  wanderer,  vexed  and  crossed  — 
I  'm  found !  I  'm  found  !  —  I  lift  my  head, 
Wlio  lately  lay  among  the  dead. 

I  joy!  I  triumph!  yet  I  fear  ! 

I  am  but  dust,  thou  knowest,  Lord ; 


(121) 

If  Thou  who  led'st  me,  leav'st  me  here, 

I  falsify  my  plighted  word. 
That  broken  vow  the  entering  wedge 
Will  be  to  deeper  guilt.  —  The  pledge, 
If  kept,  an  angel,  nigh,  will  be ; 
If  broke,  a  devil  unto  me  ! 

"What  can  I  do,  if  Cunning  wear 

The  mask  of  Wisdom,  and  to  pass 
The  weary  hours,  with  smiles  declare, 

There  's  nothing  like  the  social  glass  ? 
This  I  'd  resist  —  put  down  —  but  what 
If  from  the  cleansing  yet  one  spot 
Escaped  —  and  lurks  some  inward  will  — 
The  leprosy  remaining  still ! 

What,  if  in  an  unguarded  hour, 

I,  left  alone  in  Virtue's  pride, 
And  seeing  not  the  tempest  lower, 

And  hearing  not  the  coming  tide,  — 
Beneath  the  Pledge  my  fortunes  screening, 
Ail-proudly  on  my  own  works  leaning, 
Should  find  how  insufficient  all 
My  feeble  arm  can  do  —  and  fall ! 

Fall!  never,  never,  to  regain 

My  station  ;  —  hope  forever  crost ; 

On  wife,  and  child,  and  self,  a  stain 
Written  in  tears  of  blood,  —  all  lost  t 

O  God,  it  must  not,  cannot  be  : 

It  will  not,  if  I  trust  in  thee  ; 

Then  as  Thou  art,  be  still  my  friend, 

And  keep  me  even  to  the  end. 


11 


(122) 

He  that  had  been  possessed,  and  whom 
The  Saviour  did  from  chains  unbind,  — 

The  living  inmate  of  the  tomb, 

Clothed,  and  restored  to  his  right  mind  — 

Put  up  one  prayer*  —  his  prayer  is  mine  ! 

0  Jesus,  that  I  may  be  Thine ; 

That  where  Thou  art  I  may  abide, 

Clinging,  a  child,  to  Thy  dear  side. 


A  THOUGHT  IN  NONANTUM  VALE,  BRIGHTON. 

I  walk  among  the  plants  and  flowers,  — 
The  air  is  charged  with  sweets  ; 

I  live,  as  this  Arabian  gale 
My  fainting  spirit  greets. 

I  go  :  —  my  garments  bear  away 

The  fragrance  on  them  laid ; 
And  with  their  many-voiced  perfumes 

Tell  where  to-day  I  've  strayed. 

And  so  the  soul  that  seeks  delight 

In  interview  with  God, 
And  hath  His  garden  of  chief  spice, 

Myrrh,  aloes,  cassia,  trod, 

Will  find,  wherever  he  may  go, 

The  fragrance  with  him  stay ; 
And  Heaven,  still  lingering  on  his  steps  — 

More  odorous  than  May. 

*  St.  Mark,  v.  18. 


(123) 


|  EARTH. 

Seven*  planets  keep  around  the  sun 

Diurnal  annual  course ; 
Attraction's  law  obey  as  one, 

As  one,  Repulsion's  force. 
Seven  planets  sing,  all  night,  all  day, 

"  Who  made  us  is  divine ; 
None  sees  us,  on  our  spangled  way, 

In  equal  beauty  shine. 

To  six,  no  tidings  ever  flew 

Of  Pity  strong  to  save ; 
The  Maker's  tread  they  never  knew, 

Nor  lent  their  God  a  grave. 
The  seventh  saw  His  diadems 

On  Mary's  Offspring  rest ; 
Earth,  as  she  journeys,  wears  the  gems 

His  blood  and  tears  impressed." 

If  thus  His  penury  gilds  our  Earth, 

Where  wept  and  wandered  He, 
What  splendors,  where  He's  crowned,  have  birth  ! 

How  glorious  Heaven  must  be ! 
0  God,  to  live  and  love  below, 

That  we  may  Him  adore 
Where  all  thy  saints,  as  suns,  shall  glow, 

When  planets  shine  no  more ! 

*  I  take  the  seven,  known  only  at  the  close  of  the  last  century. 


(124) 


THE  SCAPE-GOAT. 

"And  Aaron  shall  lay  both  his  hands  npon  the  heao1  of  the  live  goat,  and 
confess  over  him  all  the  iniquities  of  the  children  of  Israel,  and  all  their 
transgressions  in  all  their  sins,  putting  them  npon  the  head  of  the  goat,  and 
shall  send  him  away  by  the  hand  of  a  fit  man  into  the  wilderness ;  and  the 
goat  shall  bear  upon  him  all  their  iniquities  into  a  land  not  inhabited."  — 
Leviticus^  xvi.  21,  22. 

Away  to  the  desert  the  Scape-Goat  flies ; 
On  him  the  sin  of  the  people  lies ; 
Confession  is  made  with  the  laying  of  hands, 
And  he  bears  the  transgression  to  desolate  lands. 

To  desolate  lands,  with  an  errand  of  woes, 
And  a  curse  for  his  burden,  the  fugitive  goes ; 
And  none  may  stay  him  on  his  path  — 
The  heavily-prest  with  Jehovah's  wrath. 

Now,  Israel !  be  glad ;  —  let  the  timbrel  and  song 
Through  thy  tents  the  thank-offering  of  music  prolong ; 
From  sin  and  transgression  and  bale  thou  art  free, 
From  the  cherubim  God  communeth  with  thee. 

'Tis  past !  and  the  altar  no  longer  is  red 
"With  blood,  or  with  flame  of  the  sacrifice  fed ; 
The  Scape-Goat,  no  longer  with  burden  of  woes, 
And  the  curse  due  for  sin,  to  the  wilderness  goes. 

And  where  are  the  sinning  nations  now  ? 
Do  earth's  kingdoms  no  more  to  idolatry  bow  ? 
Transgression  and  crime,  are  they  found  not  with  us  ? 
And  who  shall  bear  off  the  burden  of  curse  ? 


©= 


(125) 

No  Aaron  is  here  with  the  laying  of  hands 
On  the  goat  that  conveys  to  desolate  lands 
The  guilt  of  the  people,  without  and  within, 
To  leave  them  released  from  the  thraldom  of  sin. 

Did  Israel  return  to  his  folly  again  ? 
Type,  symbol,  and  substance  —  for  him  were  they  vain  ? 
Where  shall  the  wild  Gentile  appear  in  his  pride, 
When  the  olive  of  God  even  withered  and  died  ? 

0  Priest  of  Melchizedek !  only  to  Thee 
Appealing  he  looks  —  for  Thou  only  canst  free  ; 
Not  a  family,  tribe,  nor  a  nation  alone  — 

For  a  world  that  has  wandered  thy  blood  can  atone. 

In  the  Garden,  on  Thee,  all  its  guilt  that  had  past, 
And  all  that  the  future  uncounted  could  cast. 
Was  confessed,  when  the  hands  of  Infinite  Power 
Were  laid  on  the  Infinite  in  agony's  hour. 

On  the  Cross,  Thou  didst  take  it,  and  bear  it  away 
To  lands,  where  dark  Death  and  Corruption  have  sway, 
And  though  fanned  in  their  triumph  by  arrogant  wing, 
Thou  saw'st  not  their  reign,  and  thou  knew'st  not  their  sting. 

To  that  Cross,  in  my  sorrow,  dear  Saviour,  I  fly, 
Assured  by  the  mercy  that  beams  from  thine  eye, 
That  from  sin,  by  thy  suffering,  forever  made  free, 

1  am  safe,  Blessed  Sacrifice !  only  with  Thee. 


11* 


(126) 


THE  PULPIT  STAirvS   OF  RURUTU. 

"  The  last  pulpit  that  I  ascended  in  the  Society  Islands,  was  at  Rurutu, 
where  the  rails,  connected  with  the  pulpit  stairs,  were  formed  of  warriors' 
spears."  —  Rev.  Mr.  Ellis,  Missionary  to  the  Society  Islands, 

Barbarians  of  the  Southern  Sea, 
As  the  wild  waters  round  them,  free, 
Were  slaves  to  folly,  fear,  and  sin ; 
What  could  such  to  Religion  win  ? 

They  knelt  to  idols  carved  of  stone ; 
To  fish  and  fowl,  to  block  and  bone ; 
They  entered  hell  to  find  a  god 
Worse  than  the  rest,  and  gave  him  blood. 

The  mother  dug,  with  fierce  delight, 
For  one,  just  new  to  this  world's  light, 
A  grave,  —  and  she,  a  devil,  vampt, 
The  earth  upon  the  living  stampt. 

The  son  led  out  his  old,  sick  sire, 
Where  waves  come  in  and  waves  retire, 
And  left  him  for  their  rage  to  sweep 
Into  the  black,  returnless  deep. 


All  ranks  pollution  understood  ; 

To  search  its  dreadful  depths  seemed  good ; 

Daughter  and  sister,  father,  son, 

To  work  its  evil  work  were  won. 


(127) 

Warrior  on  warrior  made  attack  ; 
Death  followed  fast  the  arrow's  track ; 
And  those  whom  battle  spared,  were  doomed 
To  be  in  human  gorge  entombed. 

By  Cruelty  and  bloody  Lust, 
By  Drink,  inflaming  cursed  thirst, 
By  Sickness,  War,  and  Want  were  they 
Death  and  Destruction's  easy  prey. 

Knew  they  not  God  ?  —  deemed  they  that  Fate 
Had  formed  them  for  malignant  hate  ? 
Their  sentient  thousands  brought  to  birth, 
Objects  of  the  Creator's  mirth  ? 

Knew  they  not  God  ?  —  and  glowed  no  hint 
Of  Goodness  in  his  sunrise  tint  ? 
Knew  they  not  God  ?  —  nor  saw  confessed 
Forbearance  in  his  sunset  west? 

Knew  they  not  God !  —  They  might  have  seen 

His  beauty  in  the  glorious  green 

Of  these  fair  islands ;  —  heard  his  voice 

In  Nature's  song,  that  bade  "  Rejoice  ! " 

And  witnessed,  in  the  soil  they  trod, 
Heaved  up  in  coral  wonder  —  God  ! 
And  marked  his  footsteps,  bathed  in  wrath, 
On  the  volcano's  fiery  path. 

Yet  He,  who  these  bright  isles  had  cast, 
Gems  on  His  robe  of  waves  —  The  Past, 
The  Present,  Future,  Known,  Unknown, 
Who  wheels  on  willing  worlds  His  throne, 


®= 


(128) 

Who,  on  our  virgin  world  of  bliss 
Prest,  when  He  made  it,  Love's  first  kiss, 
And  'mid  his  angels'  glad  acclaim, 
"  Good ! "  only  "  Good ! "  pronounced  its  name, 

Was  here  unnamed ;  —  though  every  hill 
Its  Maker  knew  ;  each  conscious  rill, 
Leaping  and  sparkling,  told  of  Him  ; 
Morn's  blush,  and  Evening's  twilight  dim 

Proclaimed  the  God ;  —  these  valleys  rung, 

In  music,  "  God  ! "     Pacific  sung, 
"  God  !  "  mountain,  mead,  rill,  rock,  replied, 
"  God  !  God  ! "  —  they  heard  not,  raved  and  died. 

Till  missionary's  feet  made  glad 
The  solitudes,  by  sin  made  sad ; 
Till  apostolic  feet  to  view 
Was  beautiful  on  Rurutu  ! 

Till  songs  to  Christ  took  place  of  cries 
Shrieked  o'er  the  monarch's  sacrifice ; 
Till  tears  were  seen  his  robe  to  gem, 
Outshining  his  starred  diadem. 

Now  speaks  Redemption's  herald  —  spears 
Flash  round  him  !     Cease,  ye  busy  fears  ! 
Festooned  are  they  in  comely  rails,  — 
The  Word  of  Promise  never  fails ! 

Memorials,  they,  where  thousands  kneel, 
Of  wounds,  that  only  Grace  can  heal ; 
Reminding  of  the  Spear  that  slays, 
And  brings  to  life,  when  man  obeys. 


(129) 

Harmless  of  blood,  they  fence  the  place 
Where  beams  with  heaven  the  teacher's  face ; 
Nor,  like  the  sword  of  Eden,  burning, 
Hinder  one  wanderer  from  returning. 

Barbarians  of  the  Southern  Sea, 
Or  Northern  continents,  though  free 
As  fiends  incarnate  are  to  sin  — 
Grace,  that  has  wron  my  soul,  can  win ! 


PATIENT  BECAUSE  ETERNAL. 

Yea,  thou  forbearest,  Lord, 
Thou  renderest  not  reward 

Due  to  my  sin. 
Thou  knowest  all  my  heart, 
Yet  with  me  patient  art, 

Me,  vile  within ! 

Though  irritable  these 

My  passions  are,  —  like  seas 

Raging  aloud,  — 
Tempests  that  mock  control, 
Vexing  my  weary  soul, 

Yet  am  I  proud. 

Yea,  proud  —  though  of  a  day 
That 's  vanishing  away ; 

Lord,  I  would  learn 
Meekness  of  thee,  and  bear 
Whate'er  thou  send'st  of  care, 

Nor  trials  spurn. 


(130) 

Rebelliously  doth  flesh 
Involve  me  in  the  mesh 

Of  hurtful  strife  ; 
Within  my  nature  dwell 
The  sparks  that  kindle  hell ; 

Help  —  for  my  life  ! 

Like  touchwood,  I  the  flame 

Do  catch.     Lord,  't  is  with  shame 

My  shame  I  own. 
Bathe  me  anew  in  blood 
That  gushes  in  rich  flood, 

Fast  from  thy  throne. 

Thou  Wast !  Thou  Art!  Wilt  Be  ! 
Vouchsafe  to  lesson  me 

To  bear  thy  will. 
From  open  foes,  false  friends, 
And  all  thy  love  intends, 

Submissive  still. 

Even  as  thy  blessed  Son, 
The  meekly  suffering  One, 

The  Deity  — 
Patient,  when  woke  the  sword, 
From  whom  fell  never  word 

Vindictively. 

Who  did  not  inward  fret 
When  sorely  Him  beset 

The  powers  infernal ; 
Most  patiently  who  cried, 
Most  patiently  who  died, 

Because  Eternal ! 


(131) 


I'LL  LOOK  TO  THEE. 

I'll  look  to  Thee,  my  Saviour!  when 

The  gales  of  fortune  gently  blow, 
And  every  good,  esteemed  of  men, 

It  is  my  privilege  to  know. 
I  '11  look  from  altars,  whereon  lie 

The  coals  of  earth's  imperfect  fire, 
To  that  bright  Source  beyond  the  sky, 

Which  burns  intenser,  holier,  higher. 

I  '11  look  to  Thee,  when  sorrows  press 

With  awful  weight  upon  my  head,  — 
A  wanderer  in  this  wilderness, 

Alone,  or  with  the  joyless  dead. 
When  hope  still  sleeps,  and  wakeful  thought 

Preys  on  its  hoarded  misery, 
Even  then,  by  thy  sweet  precept  taught, 

In  tears  I  '11  only  look  to  Thee. 

I  '11  look  to  Thee,  when  sickness  pales 

This  brow,  and  wastes  this  frame  away ; 
When  strength  departs  and  spirit  fails, 

And  all  my  inward  powers  decay. 
Yea,  at  the  hour  when  nature  faints 

In  its  last  mortal  agony, 
Strong  in  the  Refuge  of  the  saints, 

I'll  look  to  Thee,  I'll  look  to  Thee. 


(132) 


THE  CRY. 


Wouldst  thou  be  cleansed  from  every  taint 

Of  grievous  and  defiling  sin  ? 
And  is  it  truly  thy  complaint 

That  Vileness  lurks  within  ? 


And  do  thy  heart-strings  wail  thy  woe  ? 

And  pants  thy  spirit  to  be  free  ? 
And  do  outbreathings  hourly  go 

For  perfect  purity  ? 

Alone,  alone,  and  passion-tost ;  — 

Though  rescued  from  Destruction's  brink, 

Still  on  the  seas  where  souls  are  lost, 
And  fearing  thou  shalt  sink. 

Spake  unto  thee,  the  Voice  that  charmed 

Judea's  waters  once  to  rest  — 
And  is  not  all  the  tempest  calmed 

To  silence  in  thy  breast  ? 

Hear !  —  for  't  is  easy  to  the  heart, 
That  meekly  sits,  of  Christ  to  learn  ; 

"Words,  that  to  darkness  light  impart, 
In  such  shall  clearly  burn. 

Below  thy  raging  sins  sink  down, 
Nor  heed  their  stormy  strife  above  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  meet  a  Saviour's  frown 
Within  his  arms  of  love. 


(133) 

Down,  down  in  dust !  —  the  only  place 
For  lips  that  press  despair's  full  cup  ;  — 

Thence  the  strong  arm  of  Sovereign  Grace 
Shall  quickly  raise  thee  up. 

Humility,  at  Jesus'  feet, 

In  wondrous  beauty  stands  confest ;  — 
Take  by  thy  Lord  the  lowest  seat, 

A  weeping,  welcome  guest. 

*T  was  on  the  mount  the  pilgrim*  grew 
A  boastful  man,  and  proud  and  vain,  — 

But  in  the  vale  he  had  Sin's  view, 
And  was  a  child  again. 

Trust  Him  who  saves,  to  cleanse  thy  soul ; 

To  limit  boundless  Love,  beware ! 
Grace,  that  begins,  completes  the  whole; 

To  prove  it,  be  thy  care. 

"  For  holiness !  "  goes  up  thy  cry  ? 

'T  was  mine,  is  mine,  and  still  shall  be ;  — 
Yet,  when  I  'm  humble,  Christ  is  nigh, 
And  blessed  purity. 

*  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


12 


(134) 


BEAUTY. 

Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 

Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks.  —  Ruth. 


Modest  Beauty  praises  God, 
When  it  sends  its  glance  abroad. 
With  a  look  of  cheerfulness ; 
Beauty  doth  the  Giver  bless, 
When  its  roses  show  the  hue 
Of  bright  health,  with  lip  of  dew, 
And  religion  of  a  face 
Where  is  written  all  of  grace. 
What  a  holy  hymn  is  ever 
With  a  sweet  expression  blent ! 
Sending  music  up,  that  never 
Skilless,  soulless  Art  hath  sent ; 
Rendering  worship,  such  as  we 
In  the  lines  of  Beauty  see. 
From  the  eye  of  diadems, 
From  the  mouth  of  pearls  and  gems, 
From  the  smile  of  calm  delight  — 
Beaming  intellectual  light,  — 
From  the  nameless,  charming  whole 
That  holds  empire  in  the  soul  — 
Doth  in  harmony  arise 
Beauty's  homage  to  the  skies. 


(135) 


DIRGE  FOR  HARRISON. 


Sung  at  Newton,  on  the  day  of  the  National  Fast,  14th  May,  1841,  in 
commemoration  of  the  death  of  President  Harrison. 


Given  is  to  earth  its  treasure ; 

Relics  !  slumber  in  the  dust ; 
Yielded  is  to  God  the  spirit,  — 

Spirit!  mingle  with  the  Just. 

"  Earth  to  earth  "  —  if  this  were  only 
Wailing  in  our  hymns  of  woe, 
God,  what  darkness  thy  creation, 
Soulless,  hopeless,  lost,  would  know ! 

In  that  cry,  in  yonder  palace, 

Spirit  unto  spirit  calls  ; 
See  !  the  Reaper  lays  the  Mighty,  — 

Yet  the  body  only  falls. 

Not  a  city,  not  a  province  — 
*T  is  a  nation  hears  the  rod ; 

Awful  is  the  lesson  taught  us  ;  — 
0  Appointer !  Thou  art  God  ! 

Humbled  at  the  throne  of  Heaven, 
Whose  rebuke  a  people  feel  — 

Let  the  tear  for  sin  be  given, 

Where,  to-day,  our  millions  kneel. 


(136) 

Warrior  !  Chieftain  !  Statesman !  Ruler ! 

Honor  heaped  upon  thy  brow  — 
Filled  Ambition's  golden  chalice  — 

What  are  these  !  and  what  art  thou ! 

Father  !  Brother  !  Patriot !  Christian ! 

Titles  graven  on  the  heart,  — 
These  are  names  by  which  we  know  thee, 

These  and  thou  can  never  part. 

Given  is  to  earth  its  treasure ; 

Relics  !  slumber  in  the  dust ; 
Yielded  is  to  God  the  spirit,  — 

Spirit !  mingle  with  the  Just. 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

She  had  his  holy  influence  felt, 

Who  woos  with  strong,  yet  gentle  call ; 

And,  yielding,  to  her  Lord  had  knelt, 
And  freely,  gladly,  given  him  all. 

So  deemed  she,  and  so  others  deemed; 

The  world  believed  her  as  she  seemed. 

Yet  not  to  self  was  self  revealed ; 

Deceived  even  there,  where  Christians  pray, 
Where  Mercy  oft  its  own  hath  sealed, 

Not  in  the  open  face  of  day,  — 
Her  wanderings  had  beginning  where 
Arose  the  formal,  closet  prayer. 


(137) 

She  lost  her  love  —  a  grievous  loss  ! 

Though  reckoned  as  of  small  account 
By  lukewarm  followers  of  the  cross, 

Who  seek  not,  prize  not,  Tabor's  mount. 
Who  from  its  wondrous  glories  turn 
To  where  earth's  little  cressets  burn. 

Yet,  sometimes  troubled  conscience  woke ; 

She  more  than  doubted  all  was  wrong; 
Where  was  the  joy  she  knew,  when  broke 

Light  on  her  darkness?  where  the  song, 
When  she  salvation's  highway  trod, 
A  pilgrim-maid,  betrothed  to  God  ? 

Why  shunned  she  thus  the  speech  of  those 
Who  talked  of  Christ,  and  loved  the  theme  ? 

Why  left  she  thus  the  Rock,  whence  flows 
Answer  in  one  perpetual  stream  — 

Where  sisters  in  their  circle  meet, 

And  hearts  are  mingled  at  his  feet  ? 

O'er  wanderings  that  no  worldling  knew, 
And  by  the  Saviour's  friends  unseen, 

She,  blinded  and  presumptuous,  threw 
The  self-deceiver's  failing  screen. 

From  her  own  heart  her  heart  to  hide, 

She,  leaving  God,  conferred  with  Pride. 

And  yet  no  overt  act  of  sin, 

To  scandalize  the  church,  was  there ; 

She  wore  the  semblance  that  could  win 
Others,  and  to  herself  was  fair. 

Mild,  modest,  courteous,  free  from  strife, 

Of  good  report,  of  blameless  life. 

12* 

© © 


(138) 

She  sat,  as  thousands  sit,  to  hear 
The  holy  gospel's  trumpet  blown  ; 

Like  thousands,  she  that  feast  drew  near, 
Spread  only  for  the  Saviour's  own. 

And  who  might  judge  ?  —  who  dare  to  say 

She  was  not  truly  sealed  as  they  ? 

She  lived,  as  thou,  false  one,  dost  live ; 

Had  hopes  as  strong,  as  bright,  as  thine  ; 
Such  evidence  as  thou  canst  give 

Was  hers  of  claim  to  life  divine ; 
Alternate  joys,  alternate  tears, 
Ecstatic  visions,  shadowy  fears. 

Till  that  «  detecter  of  the  heart," 

A  death-bed,  came !  —  They  looked  to  see 
How  a  young  Christian  might  depart, 

How  put  on  immortality. 
They  gathered  round  to  mark  the  power 
Of  Faith,  in  nature's  trial-hour. 

Mysterious  Faith,  which  bids  the  old 
Tread  that  dark  vale  without  alarm, 

And  to  the  youngest  of  the  fold 

Shows  the  kind  Shepherd's  helping  arm, 

Who  leads  the  lambs  a  gentle  way, 

Where  flowerets  bloom  and  waters  play. 

How  could  she  hail  the  blessed  state 
That  never  won  her  earnest  care  ? 

How  could  firm  Faith  a  death-bed  wait, 
Where  Love  stood  not  attendant  there, 

Ready  at  the  first  word  to  fly, 

And  bear  its  precious  charge  on  high  ? 


(139) 

What  saw  they  !  —  fear,  beyond  the  fear 

"Which  those  who  lean  on  Christ  should  know, 

Who  have  His  promise  to  be  near 
In  Jordan's  deepest  overflow  ; 

Who  at  the  grave  of  victory  sing ; 

Who  ask  of  baffled  Death  his  sting. 

What  heard  they  ?  —  sounds  that  never  fall 
From  lips  by  sweet  forgiveness  prest, 

When  saints  on  Jesus  faltering  call, 
And  sleep  in  Jesus,  truly  blest ; 

When  near  them  are  the  convoy-band, 

And  glory  from  the  "  better  land." 

Despair  gave  meaning  to  those  eyes, 
Whose  lustre  mocked  the  film  of  death ; 

Despair  gave  terror  to  those  cries, 

That  struggled  with  the  struggling  breath ; 
"  0  God !  0  God  !  art  thou  so  nigh  ? 

I  cannot !  —  no,  I  will  not  die  ! " 

She  died  —  she  died  so  poor,  who  yet 

Had  hopes,  like  thine,  of  treasure  stored  ; 

She  died  —  she,  starving,  died,  who  met, 
Like  thee,  with  Christ  around  his  board. 

Stand  thy  best  hopes  on  surer  ground  ? 

Hast  thou  in  truth,  a  Saviour  found  ? 


(140) 


CHILDREN  ARE  BLESSED  FOR  THEIR  PARENTS'  SAKE. 

To  saved  ones  that  dwell  in  the  bowers  of  heaven, 

Where  smiles  are  not  dimmed  by  the  frequent  tear, 
With  bliss  that 's  unfading,  for  ever  is  given 

Freedom  from  fears  which  preyed  on  them  here. 
Earth  past  —  they,  unheeding  its  laugh  or  its  care, 

Joy  not  in  its  joys,  sorrow  not  for  its  woe,  — 
Ever  soaring  and  singing,  the  glorified  there 

Never  notice  the  weary  or  weeper  below. 

Yet  when  the  happy  in  brightness  is  kneeling 

To  Him  who  maketh  the  darkness  his  seat,  — 
And  love  and  humility  sweetly  revealing, 

Is  casting  the  crown  at  Immanuel's  feet  — 
Though  he  museth  not  there  on  the  one  he  has  left 

In  sin  to  mourn,  in  the  flesh  to  stay,  — 
The  child,  of  a  friend,  a  father  bereft, 

Wandering  alone  in  the  perilous  way,  — 

Think  ye  not,  then,  the  eye  that  ne'er  sleepeth, 

Is  resting  in  kindness  and  care  on  that  son  ? 
That  God,  who  the  seed  of  the  righteous  keepeth, 

Guards,  and  will  guard  him,  till  toiling  is  done  ? 
Oh,  surely,  the  sighs  and  the  prayers  of  the  good 

For  children,  are  heard  in  their  confident  trust ; 
And  Heaven  replies  as  no  parent  could, 

When  lips  that  breathed  them  are  sealed  in  dust. 


(141) 


SUNDAY   SCHOOL   MISSIONARY. 

He  traverses  the  fertile  fields 

Of  pleasant  Maryland ; 
And  in  the  Old  Dominion 

Doth  the  Missionary  stand. 
In  sunny  Carolina's 

Pine  and  cotton  ground, 
By  the  flooded  rice-plantation, 

The  journeyer  is  found. 
Along  the  fervid  plains 

Of  Georgia,  not  delaying, 
Among  the  growth  of  canes 

Of  Alabama,  straying. 
And  onward,  onward  goeth  he, 

Unwearied  in  his  way, 
Till  hoarsely  thunders  on  his  ear 

The  surging  Florida. 

He  climbs  the  Alleghany's  side, 

And  seeth  from  its  crown 
Ohio's  ever  busy  tide 

To  ocean  sweeping  down. 
He  tempts  the  waters  —  on  he  hies, 

A  transitory  guest  — 
And  open  to  his  joyous  eyes 

The  splendors  of  the  West. 
By  vineyards  and  by  villages, 

By  island  groups  that  gem 
The  river,  by  the  wooded  slopes  — 

He  stayeth  not  for  them. 


(142) 

Nor  pauseth  he  at  Grave  creek, 
Nor  measureth  the  mound,  — 

There  are  dead  beyond  that  ought  to  live, 
And  lost  that  must  be  found ! 

Nor  minds  he  Marietta's  sheen, 

Nor  Blannerhasset's  isle ; 
Nor  where,  confessedly  a  queen, 

Doth  Cincinnati  smile. 
Kentucky  sees  the  traveller, 

And  in  her  settlements 
He  speaketh,  as  he  journeyeth, 

Of  glorious  intents. 
And  Indiana  hears  him ; 

Anon,  his  cheerful  voice 
Breaks  on  the  flowery  prairies 

Of  distant  Illinois. 
Upon  him  vast  Missouri 

Bursts  like  a  virgin  world ; 
And  gorgeous  Louisiana, 

Where  commerce  is  unfurled. 

And  wherefore  from  Atlantic  comes 

The  traveller,  and  whence 
The  errand  that  he  must  impart 

Before  he  goeth  hence  ? 
Why  is  the  Southron's  country  trod 

By  him  who  needeth  rest  ? 
Why  seeks  that  zealous  man  of  God 

The  valley  of  the  West? 
From  Alleghany  to  the  sea, 

From  ocean  to  the  lake  — 


=o 


(143) 

From  where  its  solemn  echoes 

Niagara  doth  wake  — 
To  pour  the  sunlight  of  the  sky 

Upon  the  uncultured  wild, 
To  show  the  love  that  God  on  high 

Hath  for  the  little  child ! 

Where  nods  the  giant  sycamore, 

Where  grows  the  wild  papaw, 
To  rear  the  floweret  that  from  Heaven 

Its  nutriment  shall  draw. 
To  stud  the  boundless  prairie 

With  trees  of  Lebanon, 
To  pierce  the  noble  forest  depths 

With  glances  of  the  Sun  ;  — 
To  speak  of  Jordan's  healing 

Where  Oregon  doth  rise  — 
Of  Calvary,  where  the  rocky  hills 

Are  towering  to  the  skies. 
Where'er  a  blade  of  grass  is  seen, 

Where'er  a  river  flows, 
To  bless  that  waiting  heritage 

With  Sharon's  living  rose. 


THE   DRUNKARD'S   DEATH. 

I  stood  beside  his  dying  bed, 

His  clammy  hand  was  clasped  in  mine,  — 
And  if  there  's  hope,  look  up,  I  said ; 

He  dropt  a  tear,  but  made  no  sign. 


(144) 

I  asked  him  of  his  misspent  years,  — 

He  had  but  reached  to  manhood's  prime,  — 

And  oh,  what  griefs,  and  guilt,  and  fears 
Trooped  where  he  stood  on  shores  of  Time ! 

For  he  to  drink  had  yielded  up 

His  intellect  and  noble  strength ; 
And  now  the  demon  of  the  cup, 

Exulting,  claimed  his  prey  at  length. 

I  spoke,  then,  of  the  broken  law, 
Of  One  who  had  the  forfeit  paid, 

And  that  his  faith  might  strongly  draw 
On  Him,  the  Merciful,  for  aid. 

Renounce  thy  sins,  and  loathe  thy  life, 

So  wearily  to  folly  given ; 
And  He  will  calm  thy  bosom's  strife, 

And  He  will  lift  thy  soul  to  heaven. 

He  cried,  "  What  shall  a  sinner  do  ! " 

He  wept,  —  "  What  dreadful  doom  is  mine !  " 

His  face  was  changed ;  despair,  I  knew, 
Prevailed,  for  still  he  made  no  sign, 

I  told  him  that  a  shoreless  sea 

Is  grace,  for  mortals  stained  with  sin ; 

To  doubt  were  crime  —  and  safely  he, 
Defiled,  indeed,  might  venture  in. 

I  knelt  in  prayer  —  if  ever  I 

Have  tasted  prayer's  prevailing  power, 
*T  was  when  my  supplicating  cry 

Appealed  for  pity  in  that  hour. 


(145) 

I  prayed  that  he  might  see  how  pure 
The  law's  demand,  how  vile  his  guilt ; 

Oh,  mercy  !  must  this  soul  endure 

Its  pangs,  when  blood  for  souls  was  spilt  — 

This  gem  that  might  be  ever  bright 

Where  coronals  in  beauty  shine, 
Be  locked  in  depths,  whose  only  light 

Gleams  palely  from  the  wrath  divine  ! 

Rather  may  he,  new-born,  be  clad 

In  robes  by  Sovereign  Love  brought  down ; 
And  stand  where  angels  worship,  glad 

With  golden  harp  and  starry  crown. 

I  asked  again,  if  he  could  now 

Yield  all  to  Him  who  claims  the  whole ; 
And  at  that  cross  where  men  must  bow 

Or  perish,  cast  his  trembling  soul  — 

And  on  this  bed  of  sorrow  say, 

"  Here,  Lord  !  to  be  for  ever  thine, 

A  lost  one  gives  himself  away ! "  — 
He  died,  he  died,  and  made  no  sign  ! 


6= 


IS  IT  WELL  WITH  THE  CHILD? 

'T  is  well  with  her,  who  on  that  bed 

Of  sickness,  late,  was  laid  so  low ; 
'T  is  well  —  though  anguish  bowed  her  head, 

And  conflicts  rent  her  bosom  so. 

13 


(146) 

'T  was  well  with  her  in  health's  glad  hour, 
Well,  when  the  wasting  arrow  came ; 

For  she  could  trust  His  wing  of  power, 
And  she  had  learned  a  Saviour's  Name. 

'T  is  well  with  her,  though  we  have  laid 
In  kindred  dust  that  beauteous  form ; 

She  lives,  a  bright,  celestial  maid, 
Far,  far  above  life's  raging  storm. 

'T  is  well  with  her  —  the  lovely  one, 
Though  like  a  broken  flower  she  lies ; 

Her  mortal  puts  immortal  on, 
Her  graces  flourish  in  the  skies. 

'T  is  well  with  her  —  oh  God,  't  is  well 
With  those  whom  thou  dost  kindly  love, 

Whether  in  fleshly  tents  they  dwell, 
Or  tread  thy  starry  courts  above. 


DIRGE 

For  the  Thirty  Thousand,  yearly  slain  by  Intemperance. 

I  stood  amid  the  place  of  graves, 
Where  hillocks,  thick  as  combing  waves, 

Were  clustered  far  around. 
Death  held  dominion ;  here  his  reign 
Was  absolute  o'er  victims  slain, 

Imprisoned  in  the  ground. 


©= 


(147) 

In  sorrow's  contemplative  mood 
I  scanned  the  mingled  multitude, 

Whose  sepulchres  were  new. 
One  year  ago  they  stood  with  men, 
And  length  of  days  they  reckoned  then, 

Who  now  were  hid  from  view. 

And  yet  from  these  —  what  fearful  fall 
Was  theirs  !  —  none  cared  to  lift  the  pall 

That  deep  Oblivion  spread. 
For  them  no  tears  of  fond  regret, 
No  midnight's  pillow  often  wet, 

Nor  sigh  called  from  the  dead. 

Here  was  the  aged  father  laid, 
And  by  his  dust  the  sleeping  maid ; 

The  husband,  wife,  were  here. 
The  manly  youth,  his  parents'  pride, 
The  bridegroom,  and  the  peerless  bride, 

The  foul  worm's  dainty  cheer. 

Here  lay  the  poor  man,  and  his  niche, 
Hard  by,  filled  up  the  rotting  rich," 

Regardless  of  his  state ; 
Of  station  high,  of  low  degree, 
The  abject  slave,  the  haughty  free, 

Corruption  for  their  mate. 

The  orator  of  splendid  name, 

The  chief  who  taught  the  foe  his  fame, 

The  giant,  godlike  mind, — 
The  noble,  generous,  and  sincere, 
Those  prompt  with  pity's  holy  tear, 

The  polished  and  refined. 


(148) 

Whence  came  they  ?     From  once  happy  homes, 
From  cottages,  from  lordly  domes, 

From  fireside  bliss  and  care ; 
From  courts  of  justice,  chambers  trod 
By  senators ;  yes,  angry  God ! 

From  thine  own  house  of  prayer ! 

Who  slew  them  ?     Not  night's  pestilence, 
That  comes  and  goes,  men  know  not  whence, 

Nor  arrow  at  noonday ; 
They  fell  not  in  the  glorious  field, 
With  Right  to  nerve,  and  Heaven  to  shield, 

When  Freedom  called  away. 

They  died  not  as  the  righteous  die, 
When  angels,  stooping  from  the  sky, 

With  songs  unloose  life's  chain. 
By  cursed  Intemperance  found  they  hell, 
And  Ignominy  pealed  the  knell 

Of  Thirty  Thousand  slain. 


THE  BRIDE   OF   THE   CANTICLES. 

Who  seeks  her  Lord  in  glorious  guise, 

Unparalleled  in  grace  — 
Love  beaming  from  her  wondrous  eyes, 

And  beauty  from  her  face  ? 
With  whom  all  similes  must  die, 

All  power  of  language  faint, 
Whose  charms,  with  pencil  from  the  sky, 

'T  were  sacrilege  to  paint  ? 


(149) 

Why  droops  her  head  in  anguish  thus  ? 

Whence  those  delicious  tears? 
As  if  an  angel  showed  to  us 

How  angel  grief  appears. 
What  accents  murmur,  like  a  dream 

Of  music,  from  her  lips  ? 
As  when  in  sorrow's  saddest  theme 

His  soul  the  minstrel  dips. 

*T  is  she  —  the  Saviour's  purchased  Bride, 

On  whom  earth's  light  is  dim  — 
For  whom  heaven's  brilliance  has  no  pride, 

Reflected  not  by  Him ! 
She  bows  her  in  her  lonely  grief; 

Shall  she  make  suit  in  vain  ? 
Come,  Thou  !  of  every  joy  the  chief, 

And  take  thy  Bride  again. 


THE   GOOD   TOE. 

Oh !  thou  only  God  of  wine, 
Comfort  this  poor  heart  of  mine, 
With  that  nectar  of  thy  blood. 

Alexander  Rosse,  1650. 

Wine  of  Cyprus,  not  for  me, 
Thou,  nor  juice  of  Italy ; 
Nor  Atlantic's  luscious  pride, 
From  Madeira's  sunny  side ; 
Nor  from  Caprea's  royal  hoard, 
Nor  from  Lisbon's  modern  board, 
Nor  from  elder  Egypt's  crypt, 
Which  Mark  Antony  hath  stripped  — 

13* 


(150) 

Nor  from  Rhine,  or  laughing  France, 
Where  Garonne's  blue  ripples  dance, 
Nor  from  banks  of  classic  river, 
Winding  Po  or  Guadalquiver. 

All  the  grapes  in  vintage  crushed, 
Could  not  satisfy  my  thirst ; 
Purple  flood  in  crysolite, 
Where  it  moves  itself  aright, 
Freely  poured  in  princely  hall, 
Sparkling  at  high  festival, 
Well  refined,  or  on  the  lees, 
Could  not  my  ambition  please ; 
Draught  that  passing  pleasure  brings, 
Leaving  ever-during  stings. 

When  my  lips  the  beaker  kiss, 
I  have  other  Wine  than  this, 
Taken  from  the  fruitful  hill, 
That  doth  live  in  poesy  still ; 
Where  for  vine,  a  cross  of  wood, 
Guarded  by  the  Roman,  stood ; 
Whose  rich  spoil  was  gathered  when 
Triumphed  hell  and  triumphed  men ; 
Crushed  and  mangled  was  whose  grape, 
While  the  heavens  looked  agape, 
And  in  sackcloth  hid  —  whose  Wine, 
Streaming,  dimmed  the  mid-day's  shine, 
Fermented  in  nature's  sigh, 
Ripened  in  the  earthquake's  cry. 

How  it  stirs  my  languid  blood ! 
How  it  cheers  my  soul,  like  food ! 


(151) 

Drink,  ye  kings  !  and  cares  forget, 
Drink,  ye  sad !  and  triumph  yet. 
Drink,  ye  aged !  strength  renew, 
Drink,  ye  children  !  \  is  for  you. 
Drink,  ye  pilgrims  !  while  't  is  nigh  - 
Drink,  nor  in  the  desert  die. 
Drink,  ye  fainting !  thirst  ye  never, 
Drink,  ye  dead !  and  live  for  ever ! 


WHILE  THE   SOLEMN  NOTE   OF   TIME. 

While  the  solemn  note  of  Time 

Warns  me  of  his  hasty  tread, 
While  the  silent  march  of  days 

Tells  —  "  another  week  hath  fled," 
While  the  hum  of  busy  toil, 

Works  of  care  and  labor  cease  ; 
While  the  six  days'  weary  strife 

Yields  to  holy,  welcome  peace,  — 
Let  me  all  the  past  review ; 

Much  hath  heaven  bestowed  on  me, 
Much  have  I  to  folly  given ; 

God !  what  have  I  done  for  thee  ? 
Nearer  to  my  final  hour, 

Am  I  sealed  with  Jesus'  blood  ? 
Nearer  to  eternity, 

Am  I  nearer  to  my  God  ? 
Hasten,  pilgrim  !  on  thy  way, 

Gird  thee  at  the  martyr's  shrine ; 
Hasten,  pilgrim !  why  delay  ? 

Immortality  is  thine. 


(152) 


THE   STAR   OF   BETHLEHEM. 

Star  of  the  East !  the  Shepherd's  Star ! 

Benignant  was  thy  lustre,  when 
It  told  of  mercy  from  afar, 

And  beamed  Salvation  down  to  men ; 
The  mystery,  surpassing  ken 

Of  angel-powers,  revealedst  thou ; 
Celestial  were  thy  glories  then 

That  burst  and  streamed  on  Midnight's  brow. 
As  bright  thou  burn'st  in  yon  blue  field, 

How  dim  to  thee  the  toys  of  kings ! 
Vain  the  delight  their  pageants  yield, 

Compared  with  that  which  from  thee  springs ; 
0,  Earth,  and  all  her  little  things 

Of  real  bliss  can  give  no  ray ; 
Her  fairest  flowers  have  secret  stings, 

Her  splendors  shine  and  pass  away. 


Star  of  the  East !  no  gems  that  burn 

Amid  these  lesser  orbs  we  see, 
Or  where  upon  their  axles  turn 

The  worlds  of  vast  infinity, 
Thou  peerless  One !  can  vie  with  thee ; 

They  never  heralded  the  plan, 
Conceived  —  performed  by  Deity  — 

That  speaks  of  pardon,  peace  to  man : 
They  hold  along  the  empyrean  coast 

Their  viewless  march,  unheard,  unknown ; 


(153) 

The  least  among  the  radiant  host, 
That  silent  shine,  and  shine  alone ; 

But  thou,  bright  Star !  Redemption's  own ! 
Didst  wander  'mid  the  light  of  song  ; 

Thou  earnest  with  music  from  the  throne, 
Attended  by  a  seraph  throng. 

Star  of  the  East !  the  tempest-tost, 

On  life's  uncertain  billows  borne, 
Is  by  rude  gales  of  trouble  crossed, 

By  hidden  rocks  of  sorrow  torn  — 
When  breaks  the  cheering  Star  of  Morn, 

When  night  and  thrall  for  ever  flee, 
0,  where  the  doubts  and  fears  forlorn 

Of  him,  the  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 
Break  out,  blest  Star !  with  peaceful  ray  ; 

And  if  our  steps  to  Truth  incline, 
Oh,  help  and  guard  our  weeping  way ! 

Along  these  doubtful  waters  shine ! 
The  heavenly  beacon-light  of  thine 

That  trembled  once  on  Bethlehem's  plain, 
Shall  guide  us  to  the  Source  Divine, 

Shall  lead  us  to  the  Child  again. 


THE  INCONSISTENT. 

Oh,  parent,  who  thy  watch  art  keeping, 
So  pleasing,  painful,  o'er  thy  boy,  — 

Whose  vigilance  is  all  unsleeping, 

That  he  may  prove,  indeed,  thy  joy  — 


(154) 

Consider !  while  thy  care  thou  deemest 
Enough,  at  times,  thy  hope  to  dim, 

A  cloud,  of  which  thou  little  dreamest, 
Comes  up  between  his  bliss  and  him. 

While  he  imbibes  instruction  needed, 
And  Precept  seems  to  guide  the  way, 

Some  act  of  thine,  some  word,  unheeded, 
In  sad  Example,  leads  astray ; 

In  all  the  influence  that  in  beauty 

Should  cluster  round  the  social  hearth, 

In  every  pleasure,  toil  and  duty 
Of  home,  the  dearest  spot  on  earth, 

With  one  hand  to  the  living  fountain 
Pointing,  where  he  may  enter  in, 

And  with  the  other,  like  a  mountain, 
Piling  along  his  path  thy  sin  ! 

On  Inconsistency  that 's  blazing 

Thus  falsely,  where  should  be  true  light, 

Thy  helpless,  ductile  offspring  gazing  — 
How  can  he  find  the  way  that 's  right  ? 

Oh,  cruel !  that  the  bosom  swelling 
With  ardor,  hope,  and  promise,  fair, 

Should,  by  thy  folly,  be  the  dwelling 
Of  guilty  pain  and  keen  despair. 

Had  he  not  here  —  a  thoughtless  stranger, 
Unskilled  life's  thousand  snares  to  shun  — 

Enough  —  without  thine  aid  —  of  danger  ? 
And  is  thy  child  by  thee  undone  ? 


(155) 

How  many  thus,  like  stars,  for  ever 
Have  set,  in  baleful  night  to  dwell, 

In  spite  of  Wisdom's  strong  endeavor, 
Lost  by  the  parent  —  who  may  tell  ? 


LYDIA. 
Acts  xvi.  14. 

Seller  of  purple !     Listener  to  the  word 
Brought  to  thy  heart  by  Silas  and  by  Paul, 
Baptized  with  all  thy  household ;  thou  wast  stirred 
By  the  great  debt  incurred  to  grace,  by  all 
The  blessed  love  that  converts  have  for  them 
Who  teach  stray  feet  the  way  to  Bethlehem,  — 
To  show  true  hospitality  of  heart, 
To  entertain  each  God-sent,  gracious  guest, 
Unwilling  from  such  benison  to  part, 
Thy  humble  dome  with  such  how  greatly  blest ! 
Thou  wast  indeed  judged  faithful  in  thy  love, 
And  holy  footsteps  honored  thy  abode ; 
Nobler,  thus  sheltering  heralds  from  above, 
Than  proudest  hall  by  proudest  monarch  trod  ! 


=® 


(156) 


MONT  PILATRE. 

M  The  Proconsul  of  Judea  here  found  the  termination  of  his  impious  life  ; 
having,  after  spending  years  in  the  recesses  of  this  mountain,  which  bears 
his  name,  at  length,  in  remorse  and  despair,  rather  than  in  penitence,  plung- 
ed into  the  dismal  lake  which  occupies  the  summit." — Legend  in  Anne 
of  Geierstein. 

"  When  Pilate  saw  that  he  could  prevail  nothing,  but  that  rather  a  tumult 
was  made,  he  took  water,  and  washed  his  hands  before  the  multitude,  say 
ing,  I  am  innocent  of  the  blood  of  this  just  person ;  see  ye  to  it."  —  St, 
Matthew,  xxvii.  24. 

Immortal  infamy  is  his 

Who  gave  the  Saviour  up 
To  bear  the  Jewish  scourge  and  scorn, 

And  drink  the  Roman  cup. 
He  washed  his  hands  in  sight  of  men, 

And  slander  thought  to  kill,  — 
Yet  he  was  damned,  and  to  this  hour 

His  hands  are  spotted  still. 

There  's  something  of  audacious  crime 

In  guilty  Judas  found, 
Though  viler  than  the  vilest  thing 

That  crawls  upon  the  ground ; 
But  he  who  had  not  fortitude 

In  trial's  honest  hour, 
To  own  the  holy  influence 

Of  conscience*  secret  power ; 

And  whose  unfeeling,  coward  heart, 

Intent  on  selfish  ease, 
Did  seek,  with  sophistry  and  art, 

Both  God  and  man  to  please,  — 

)  © 


(157) 

By  God  abhorred,  by  man  despised, 
And  shunned  by  fiends  below  — 

Where  shall  the  wretch,  to  hide  himself. 
And  hide  his  meanness,  go ! 


SUNDAY. 


"  The  Sundays  of  man's  life, 
Threaded  together  on  Time's  string, 

Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal,  glorious  King."  —  The  Cliurch. 

Sweet  Sabbath !  gift  of  heaven,  that  selfish  man 
Would  never  on  himself  have  thus  bestowed,  — 
A  green  spot  art  thou  in  the  dreary  road 

Of  life,  sojourning,  every  seventh  day  found ; 

Where  we,  thought  gathered,  earth  withdrawn,  may  scan 
The  overwhelming  glories  scattered  round 
The  universe  of  God.     Or,  called  by  bells, 
Drink,  in  his  temple,  where  it  freely  wells, 

Water  of  Life ;  such  as  the  woman  drew 

Never  by  old  Samaria,  but  which  knew 

The  heavenly  Teacher.     Me,  stript  of  my  pride, 

Show,  on  this  day,  as  here  I  waiting  lie, 

Panting  with  thirst,  on  this  parched,  waste  way  side  — 

The  path,  dear  Lord !  to  Sabbath  streams  on  high. 


14 


(158) 


FORETASTES. 

Some  joy  it  has  been  mine  to  know, 

When,  in  the  closet  bending  low, 

I've  converse  held  with  heaven  in  prayer, 

And  foretastes  had  of  glory  there. 

If  here,  such  glimpse  is  given  to  me, 

What  must  the  full  fruition  be ! 

I  've  tasted  happiness,  when  bowed 
In  worship,  with  the  pious  crowd, 
In  temple  walls,  whose  full-voiced  choir 
Pealed  David's  notes  to  David's  lyre, 
And  felt  —  if  music  thus  to  love 
Woke  here,  what  is  its  power  above ! 

I  've  touched  those  emblems  with  the  saints^ 
Whose  use  restores  the  soul  that  faints, 
And  gathered,  at  the  Saviour's  board, 
Bliss,  earth  can  neither  give  nor  hoard,  — 
And  thought,  if  cheers  thus  mingled  wine, 
What  is  that  crushed,  that  Living  Vine ! 

I  've  seen  the  Christian  die,  yet  ere 

The  spirit  sought  its  native  sphere, 

I  marked,  with  awe,  his  kindling  eye, 

And  eager  flush,  and  heard  the  sigh 

Of  holy  rapture  —  not  of  pain, 

And  said,  "  What  conflict !  yet  what  gain  ! " 


(159) 

For  his  pale  cheek,  I  saw,  was  fanned 
With  breezes  from  the  better  land ; 
Libations  of  the  next  world's  bliss 
He  drank,  before  he  passed  from  this ; 
Of  Love  his  life  had  known  the  power ; 
Its  foretastes  sunned  the  last  dark  hour. 

Oh,  there  is  something  round  us  thrown 
Of  other  worlds !  —  In  crowds,  alone, 
By  day,  by  night,  we  whispers  hear, 
From  errand  angels,  always  near ; 
Reminding  pilgrims  of  their  Home, 
Telling  us  of  the  Rest  to  come. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  REV.  G.  B . 

Accepting  the   Swedenborgian  Faith. 

My  heart  took  counsel  with  thy  pious  heart 
What  time  we  dwelt  by  fair  Ohio's  tide  ;  — 
From  Flattery's  music  thou  didst  turn  aside, 

And  in  thy  graceful  modesty,  apart, 

With  books  and  God,  didst  prove  the  Christian  art 
Of  drinking  Wisdom's  waters,  undefiled,  — 
In  spirit  humble  as  a  little  child. 

And  herein  's  ointment  for  the  grievous  smart 
Of  Zion,  bruised  by  thee  !     I  dare  not  think 

That  Heaven  will  leave  thee  in  Cimmerian  night 

To  wander,  as  do  those,  once  stars  of  light  — 
To  die,  as  meteors  die.     From  the  dread  brink 

Whence  thou  art  toppling,  Voices  beckon  thee ;  — 

Hear  them,  rash  man !  — bach  to  the  strongholds  flee ! 

6 


(160) 


THE  HARVEST  IS  GREAT  — THE  LABORERS  FEW. 

Vineyard  of  the  Lord !  thy  treasures 

Plenteous  are  to  wondering  sight ; 
How  the  laden  stalks  are  bending 

With  the  grain,  to  harvest  white ! 
Wide  the  field  —  the  world  can  only 

Bound  its  precincts.     Vast  the  prize  ;  — 
To  express  its  value,  ages 

Heaped  on  ages  can't  suffice. 

Who  will  enter  ?  —  Laborers,  toiling 

In  the  wasting  heat  of  day, 
Are  but  few  ;  and  of  these,  hourly, 

Perish  some  along  the  way. 
Who  will  enter  ?  —  Great  thfc  burden, 

Hard  and  constant  is  the  toil ; 
But  ye  serve  a  gracious  Master, 

And  he  '11  give  you  princely  spoil. 

Wake,  oh,  north  wind !  on  this  garden, 

Fainting,  dying,  strongly  blow  ; 
Come,  thou  south  !  and,  gently  breathing, 

Bid  its  spices  freely  flow. 
Then,  his  power  confessed,  the  Spirit 

Hearts  shall  touch,  and  sweetly  win ;  — 
Vineyard !  now,  to  reap  thy  harvest, 

Joyful  thousands  enter  in. 


(161) 


JACOB'S  WELL. 

He  journeyed  on  to  Galilee, 

Unheralded  by  fame, 
And  wearily  to  Jacob's  Well 

The  heavenly  Teacher  came. 
Upon  that  fountain's  granite  lip 

He  leaned,  and  gazed  below, 
Where  the  cool  waters  gushed  and  foamed, 

And  leaped  in  frolic  flow. 

Who  would  have  thought  that  weary  man, 

Reclined  in  mean  attire 
Here  in  Samaria  —  was  the  theme 

Of  all  the  angel  choir  ? 
That  for  this  wanderer,  faint  with  thirst, 

Were  heaven  and  hell  at  strife,  — 
That  he  possessed  the  crystal  key 

Which  opes  the  Well  of  Life  ? 

Oh,  when  I  meet,  henceforth,  the  sad 

And  humble  child  of  care, 
Let  me  not  scorn  his  presence,  lest 

I  weave  myself  a  snare  ; 
For  in  that  poor  and  broken  wretch, 

By  whom  the  dunghill 's  trod, 
Unerring  Scrutiny  may  spy 

A  sceptred  son  of  God. 


14* 


-© 


(162) 


THE  WIDOW. 

"  Do  not  the  tears  ran  down  the  widow's  cheek  ?  and  is  not  her  cry 
against  him  that  causeth  the  fatherless  to  fall?  "  —  The  Son  of  Sirach. 

Man  !  who  pitiest  mortal  woe, 

Sighest  when  the  stricken  sigh,  — 

In  whom  sweet  Compassion's  glow 
Stirs  the  soul  and  dims  the  eye, — 

Look  upon  the  Widow's  sadness ; 

Bid  the  Widow  leap  for  gladness. 

Woman  !  type  of  mercy,  thou, 

Who  thyself  all  feeling  art, 
Wearing  pity  on  thy  brow, 

And  its  impulse  in  thy  heart, 
Hearken  to  the  Widow's  groan, 
Weep  for  her  that  weeps  alone. 

Youth  !  the  first  in  deeds  of  daring, 

Leaving  timid  Age  behind,  — 
Following  Fortune,  yet  uncaring 

If  she  slights  thee,  or  is  kind, — 
Stop  !  nor  proudly  scorn  her  lot 
Which  thou  understandest  not. 

Maiden  !  in  thy  laughing  hour, 

Dreaming  not  of  future  ill,  — 
Yet  in  whom,  with  certain  power, 

Destiny  shall  work  its  will, — 
By  thy  hopes,  that  soon  must  die, 
Hear  the  Widow's  troubled  cry. 


(103) 

Thou  !  who  sorrowedst  o'er  the  bier, 
Where  a  widow's  son  was  laid, 

At  the  gate  of  Nam,  —  hear  I 
Look,  and  lend  thy  gracious  aid. 

God  !  the  counsel  came  from  Thee, 
"  Let  thy  Widows  trust  in  Me." 


THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE. 

0  Jesus  !  once  on  Galilee 

Thy  voice  of  power  was  heard, 

When  madly  that  dark  heaving  sea 
Through  all  its  depths  was  stirred. 

The  forky  lightnings  Thee  revealed, 
Calm,  'mid  the  storm's  increase, 

And  far  above  where  thunders  pealed, 
Was  heard  the  whisper,  "  Peace  !  " 

How  drooped  at  once  that  foaming  sheet 

Of  waters,  vexed  and  wild ! 
Each  wave  came  falling  at  thy  feet, 

Just  like  an  humbled  child. 

So  rages  my  tumultuous  breast, 
So  chafes  my  maniac  will ;  — 

Speak  !  and  these  troubled  seas  shall  rest, 
Speak ;  and  the  storm  is  still. 


(164) 


THE  DEAD  BOY, 

Mother  !  little  William  lies 
Very  still  —  his  laughing  eyes 
Look  no  more  on  thee  and  me ; 
Though  I  speak,  he  will  not  hear  — 
What  may  this,  dear  mother,  be  ? 
As  I  gaze,  I  almost  fear. 
Though  I  stroke  his  silken  hair, 
Touch  his  cheek,  so  pale  and  fair, 
Though  his  pretty  mouth  I  kiss, 
Yet  he  minds  not  —  why  is  this  ? 
His  tiny  hand  will  nothing  hold, 
And  his  fingers  are  so  cold ! 
William !  wake  !  —  it  is  not  sleep, 
Surely,  slumber  's  not  so  deep. 
Pretty  baby !  look  at  sis  — 
Look  at  me,  and  wake,  or  L 
Shall  my  little  playing  miss ; 
Wake,  or  darling  sis  will  cry. 
I  cannot  think  what  makes  him  so  — 
You  told  me,  mother,  he  must  go. 
Yet  he  's  here,  and  yet  he  's  not 
Somehow.     Has  he  us  forgot  ? 
Will  he  love  me,  then,  no  longer? 
Me,  who  took  him  —  as  I  'm  stronger  — 
Every  day,  upon  my  lap  — 
Smoothed  his  frock  and  tied  his  cap  — 
Played  bo-peep,  and  made  him  smile, 
When  you  stood  and  laughed  the  while. 


(165) 

"Won't  he  move,  or  shake  his  head, 
As  he  used  to  do  in  fun  ? 
Won't  he  learn  to  jump  and  run  ? 
Mother !  mother !  —  is  he  dead! 

Yes,  my  daughter !     You  must  take 
Your  last  look.     He  will  not  wake. 
Never  more,  with  cunning  ways, 
Watch  you  in  your  daily  plays. 
Never  show  the  pouting  lips, 
Where  a  mother  pleasure  sips.. 
Nor  the  sweet  mouth  open,  so 
We  may  see  where  pearls  do  grow. 
He  was  very  sick,  but  he 
Is  from  sickness  ever  free. 
He  was  weak  in  every  limb  — 
Active  now  as  cherubim 
Is  he.     How  he  sunk  in  pain  ! 
He  will  never  droop  again. 
Tears  of  anguish  will  not  wet 
Those  dark  lids,  where  death  has  set 
Solemn  seal;  the  aching  breast 
Heaves  no  more,  for  all 's  at  rest. 
Oh,  how  changed  from  him  we  saw, 
When,  last  night,  he  tried  to  draw 
His  pure  breath,  and  each  endeavor 
Seemed  as  if  't  would  spirit  sever 
From  the  suffering  body  !     Now 
Calmness  sits  upon  his  brow, 
Dried  is  every  tear  that  gushed, 
Every  laboring  sigh  is  hushed. 
Death  and  sad  decay  are  here ! 
Beauty  of  the  skies  is  here ! 


(1G6) 


Resurrection's  light  is  here  ! 
He  is  here,  and  he  is  not ! 
Oh,  my  child  !  a  blessed  lot 
Is  our  William's  now  above, 
Where  the  children  sing  of  love, 
Casting  their  bright  honors  down, 
At  His  feet,  the  harp  and  crown, 
Who  in  heaven  the  diadem 
Wears  —  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem ! 
Sweet  the  hymn,  whose  stately  march 
Ever  is  around  that  arch 
Pealing  of  Redemption !     Song, 
Sweeter,  louder,  doth  belong 
To  the  cherub  infant  throng, 
Whose  sweet  voices  warble  clear 
Music,  God  delights  to  hear. 
Come,  my  daughter !  leave  him  now ; 
We  in  humble  prayer  will  bow 
At  our  heavenly  Father's  feet, 
Asking  that  we  all  may  meet 
Where  the  infant  of  an  hour 
Is  an  angel.     Where  each  power 
Of  a  feeble  babe  may  clasp 
Themes  that  angels  cannot  grasp. 
Parting  is  to-day  in  sorrow  — 
Joyful  meeting  is  to-morrow  — 
With  him,  dearest,  then  to  be 
Heirs  of  Immortality. 


(167) 


THE  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  TEACHER. 

Could  angel  choirs  demand  of  Earth 

A  theme  to  gratulate  the  throne, 
Nobler  than  young  creation's  birth, 

Sweeter  than  Heaven's  wide  vault  hath  known,  — 
Could  the  redeemed  lay  by  their  palms, 

And  cast  their  glittering  honors  down ; 
To  take  a  robe  of  lovelier  charms, 

To  wear  a  brighter,  fairer  crown  : 

The  theme  is  found  —  't  is  Charity  ; 

'T  is  Charity,  Jehovah's  theme ! 
Woven  the  robe  —  eternity 

Shall  brighten  and  reflect  its  beam. 
Blest  is  the  man,  whose  mite  is  given, 

To  feed  God's  poor  —  though  small  the  boon, 
Shall  his  reward  be  lost  ?  —  yon  heaven 

With  heaven's  tali  throne,  shall  sink  as  soon. 

Yet  more  exalted  he,  who  shares 

The  unwearied  Teacher's  holy  toil, 
Who  plants  the  seed,  whose  daily  prayers, 

Whose  midnight  tears,  refresh  the  soil ; 
And,  higher  shall  his  seat  be  found, 

Who  makes  these  chosen  lambs  his  care  ; 
Richer  the  gems  that  gird  him  round, 

The  Tear  of  Pity  will  be  there. 


(168) 


THE  OLD  NORTH  BURIAL  GROUND  IN  PORTSMOUTH,  N.  H. 

I  stand  where  I  have  stood  before,  in  boyhood's  sunny  prime, 
The  same  —  yet  not  the  same,  but  one  who  wears  the  touch 

of  Time  ; 
And  gaze  around  on  what  was  then  familiar  to  the  eye, 
But  whose  inconstant  features  tell  that  years  have  journeyed  by, 

Since  o'er  this  venerable  ground  a  truant  child  I  played, 

And  chased  the  bee  and  plucked  the  flower,  where  ancient 
dust  is  laid ; 

And  hearkened,  in  my  wondering  mood,  when  tolled  the  pas- 
sing bell, 

And  started  at  the  coffin's  cry,  as  clods  upon  it  fell. 

These  mossy  tombs  I  recollect,  the  same  o'er  which  I  pored, 
The  same  these  rhymes  and  texts,  with  which  my  memory 

was  stored ; 
These  humble  tokens,  too,  that  lean,  and  tell  where  resting 

bones 
Are  hidden,  though  their  date  and  name  have  perished  from 

the  stones. 

How  rich  these  precincts  with  the  spoils  of  ages  buried  here ! 

What  hearts  have  ached,  what  eyes  have  given  this  conscious 
earth  the  tear  — 

How  many  friends,  whose  welcome  cheered  their  now  desert- 
ed doors, 

Have,  since  my  last  sojourning,  swelled  these  melancholy 
stores ! 


© 


c  « 

(  mw  ) 

Yon  spot,  where  in  the  sunset  ray  a  single  white  stone  gleams, 
I  Ve  visited,  I  cannot  tell  how  often,  in  my  dreams,  — 
That  spot  o  'er  which  I  wept,  though  then  too  young  my  loss 

to  know, 
As  I  beheld  my  father's  form  sepulchred  far  below. 

How  freshly  every  circumstance,  though  seas  swept  wide  be- 
tween, 

And  years  had  vanished  since  that  hour,  in  vagaries  I  've 
seen ! 

The  lifted  lid  —  that  countenance  —  the  funeral  array, 

As  vividly  as  if  the  scene  were  but  of  yesterday. 

How  pleasant  seem  the  moments  now,  as  up  their  shadows 

come, 
Spent  in  the  domicil  that  wore  the  sacred  name  of  home,  — 
How  in  the  vista  years  have  made,  they  shine  with  mellowed 

light, 
To  which  meridian  bliss  has  nought  so  beautiful  and  bright ! 

How  happy  were  those  fireside  hours  —  how  happy  summer's 

walk, 
When  listening  to  my  father's  w^ords,  or  joining  in  the  talk ; 
How  passed  like  dreams  those  early  hours,  till  down  upon  us 

burst 
The  avalanche  of  grief,  and  laid  our  pleasures  in  the  dust ! 

They  tell  of  loss,  but  who  can  tell  how  thorough  is  the  stroke 
By  which  the  tie  of  sire  and  son  in  death  's  forever  broke  ? 
They  tell  of  Time  !  —  though  he  may  heal  the  heart  that 's 

wounded  sore, 
The  household  bliss  thus  blighted,  Time  !    canst  thou  again 

restore  ? 

. 15 

=(j 


=0 


(170) 

Yet  if  this  spot  recalls  the  dead,  and  brings  from  memory's 

leaf 
A  sentence  wrote  in  bitterness,  of  raptures,  bright  and  brief, 
I  would  not  shun  it,  nor  would  lose  the  moral  it  will  give, 
To  teach  me  by  the  withered  past,  for  better  hopes  to  live. 

And  though  to  warn  of  future  woe,  or  whisper  future  bliss, 
One  comes  not  from  the  spirit  world,  a  witness  unto  this, 
Yet  from  memorials  of  his  dust,  't  is  wholesome  thus  to  learn 
And  print  upon  our  thought  the  state  to  which  we  must  return. 

Wherever  then  my  pilgrimage  in  coming  days  shall  be, 

My  frequent  visions,  favorite  ground  !  shall  backward  glance 

to  thee ; 
The  holy  dead,  the  bygone  hours,  the  precepts  early  given, 
Shall  sweetly  soothe  and  influence  my  homeward  way  to 

heaven. 


SONG  FROM  SCRIPTURE. 
"  And  they  shall  see  his  face."  —  Revelation,  xxii.  4. 

They  tell  of  the  region  of  bliss, 

And  its  tree  of  twelve  manner  of  fruits, 

On  whose  leaf  falls  the  wind's  lightest  kiss, 
And  clearest  of  streams  on  its  roots. 

They  tell  of  the  city,  whose  walls 

Are  jasper,  whose  pavements  are  gold ; 

The  splendor  that  lightens  its  halls 
Immortals  may  only  behold. 


(171) 

They  tell  me  its  gates,  of  one  pearl, 

Shall  never  be  folded  by  day ; 
His  curtain  night  ne'er  shall  unfurl 

O'er  its  bright  and  its  beautiful  way ;  — 

That  those  wearing  raiment  which  flames 
With  glory,  —  who  endlessly  look 

In  beauty,  unwrinkled,  are  names 

Written  down  in  the  Lamb's  blessed  book ;  • 

That  strings  tremble  there  to  the  touch, 
Delicious,  and  thrilling,  and  deep ;  — 

The  music  they  utter  is  such 

As  maketh  full  Happiness  weep. 

They  say  there  shall  never  be  curse, 
For  the  throne  of  the  Holy  is  there ; 

Once  entered  those  portals,  for  us 
No  longer  is  sin  or  despair. 

'T  is  wondrous  !  — " t  is  great  to  the  soul ! 

Yet  the  jewel  that  crowneth  the  place, 
And  preciousness  gives  to  the  whole, 

My  Lord !  is  the  smile  of  thy  face. 


SATURDAY  EVENING. 


My  God !  this  hour  doth  thought  invite, 
That,  bird-like,  would  for  shelter  flee, 

Tired  with  its  six  days'  weary  flight  — 
To  fold  its  wings,  and  rest  with  Thee. 


(172) 

I  long  to  soar  above  the  vain 

And  false  delights  that  compass  me ! 

Break,  Lord,  the  world's  entangling  chain, 
And  set  the  joyful  captive  free. 

'T  is  said  the  time  ere  that  which  brings 

The  early  blush  of  Sabbath  light, 
Is  never  vexed  by  evil  things, 

Is  ne'er  disturbed  by  fiends  of  night ; 
So,  like  that  hour,  I  fain  would  choose 

My  soul  to  be  —  its  calm  delight 
So  deep  —  that  Folly  must  refuse 

To  stay,  and  Sin  be  loth  to  fright. 

Sweet  Evening !  whose  delightful  air 

Already  scents  of  Sabbath  gales, 
Refresh  me  !  cheer  me  !  and  repair 

The  vigor  that  so  often  fails ; 
And  fit  me  for  the  morrow's  toil 

In  gardens  where  the  soul  inhales 
Rich  fragrance,  gathering  flowery  spoil 

On  rosy  hills,  in  lilied  vales. 

If  such  the  prospects  that  may  pass 

Before  a  pilgrim  here  below, 
Who  gazes  through  the  shepherd's  glass, 

The  far  celestial  scenes  to  know  — 
How  glorious,  waking  from  the  dream 

Of  life's  delusions,  care  and  woe, 
Must  that  high  world  of  beauty  seem 

Whose  earthly  glimpses  ravish  so ! 


(173) 


CHARITY. 

"  Go  heal  the  sick,  go  raise  the  dead," 
The  Saviour  to  the  Seventy  said ;  — 
They  straightway  spread  abroad  the  flame 
Of  sacred  Mercy,  in  his  Name. 

Lord,  we  are  not  commissioned  thus ; 

To  quell  disease  is  not  for  us ; 

We  cannot  bid  insensate  dust 

To  rise,  and  tomb  and  cerement  burst. 

But  we  can  cheer  the  dwelling,  where 
Is  found  the  son  of  want  and  care ; 
And  smooth  the  couch  on  which  at  last 
The  daughter  of  despair  is  cast. 

And  we  may  hush  the  orphan's  fear, 
And  wipe  away  the  widow's  tear ; 
Win  back  the  wandering  and  undone, 
And  clothe  and  feed  the  needy  one. 

Thus  seeking  such  as  Thou  didst  know, 
Who  wast  companion,  too,  of  woe ; 
Thus  following  paths  thyself  didst  tread, 
Who  often  raised  the  drooping  head. 

Happy  —  if,  when  the  blessed  stand 
In  judgement  at  thy  high  right  hand, 
We  hear  Thee  say,  "  Whatever  ye 
Have  done  to  these,  ye  did  to  Me." 


15* 


(174) 


THE  SABBATH. 

"  The  day  that  God  calls  his,  make  not  thine  own 
By  sports,  or  play,  though  't  is  a  custom  grown ; 
God's  day  of  mercy  whoso  doth  profane, 
God's  day  of  judgement  doth  for  him  remain." 

MS.  Poetry  of  the  Seventeenth  Century. 

Jot  for  the  Sabbath  day ! 

Day  of  all  days  the  best,  — 
Toil,  with  thy  thousand  cares  away ! 

I  seek  its  hallowed  rest. 
When  virgin  Earth  was  young, 

The  Word  that  blest  it  came ; 
With  trumpet's  voice  the  mandate  rung 

From  Sinai's  hill  of  flame. 

Joy  for  the  Sabbath  hours ! 

My  soul,  think  on  thy  vow ; 
Lie  trembling,  ye  tumultuous  powers  ! 

Tread  softly,  worldlings,  now ! 
This  Resurrection  Morn 

Broke  ancient  Midnight's  spell, 
When  One  of  lowly  woman  born, 

Spoiled  Death  and  eager  Hell. 

Up,  for  retirement's  haunt ; 

The  solemn,  secret  place, 
Where  God  supplies  the  spirit's  want 

With  treasures  of  his  "race. 


(175) 

Its  hushed  and  early  hour 

Invites  prevailing  men ; 
The  Sabbath  day-break  !  —  Oh,  there 's  power 

With  Him  to  wrestle  then. 


Up,  where  Devotion  waits, 

Where  the  bowed  heart  adores ; 
Be  lifted,  oh,  ye  temple  gates ! 

Be  opened,  joyful  doors ! 
There,  at  the  organ's  peal, 

And  choir's  melodious  tone 
Of  rising  anthem,  humbly  kneel 

Before  thy  Father's  throne. 

Up  !  for  the  paschal  feast,  — 

The  bread  and  wine  are  here ; 
Thou,  whom  thy  heart  esteems  as  least, 

Art  welcome  to  the  cheer. 
The  bridal  of  the  King 

And  Church  is  held  to-day ; 
Thy  willing  gift  of  gladness  bring, 

And  bring  thy  white  array. 


(176) 


TO  A   YOUNG  LADY  WHO   WAS   BAPTIZED  IN  INFANCY. 

The  seal  of  the  covenant,  given, 

On  your  forehead,  for  ever  will  tell  — 
A  star  in  the  brightness  of  heaven, 

Or  spark  in  the  glimmering  of  hell,  — 
That  you  were  in  infancy  laid 

A  bud  in  its  tenderest  hour, 
On  His  bosom,  who  kindly  has  said 

That  dearer  is  such  than  the  flower ; 
That  you  the  volition  had  here  — 

A  mortal  cast  out  in  your  blood, 
To  rise  to  Infinity's  sphere, 

A  worm,  yet  a  daughter  of  God  — 
Or  fall  to  a  depth  of  despair 

Which  angels  undone  never  knew  ; 
To  one  of  these  portions  you  are 

Inheritor,  —  What  will  you  do  f 

The  rainbow  that  rests  on  the  cloud, 

When  the  tempest,  all  weary,  would  sleep, 
A  sign  that  God  never  will  shroud 

Earth  again  in  the  waves  of  the  deep  — 
Was  not  to  the  patriarch  Noah, 

Surer  test  of  unchangeable  word, 
Than  is  this,  that  His  own,  evermore, 

Are  safe  from  the  wrath  of  the  Lord ;  — 
For  the  seal  on  your  forehead,  the  love 

Of  Jesus  as  surely  doth  show, 
As  Mercy's,  when  woven  above, 

Is  the  fading  and  beautiful  bow. 


(177) 

This  fades  not !  —  it  brightly  shall  be 
Immortal  memento  to  you 

Of  grace,  if  from  peril  you  flee, 
Or  ruin,  —  say,  What  will  you  do  ? 


COMMUNION  HYMN. 

"  Behold  his  pallid  face,  his  heavy  frown, 
And  what  a  throng  of  thieves  him  mocking  stand ! 
Come  forth,  ye  empyrean  troops  !  come  forth, 
Preserve  this  sacred  blood  that  earth  adorns, 
Gather  those  liquid  roses  off  his  thorns." 

Dnimmond,  of  Haivthornden,  1585. 

To  see,  my  Lord,  thy  body  thus 

In  ruins,  is  a  fearful  thing ; 
And  yet  it  bore  away  the  curse 

From  sin,  and  drew  the  Spoiler's  sting. 
These  fragments  of  thy  bruised  flesh 

Are  sweet  as  breath  of  morning 's  bloom,  — 
Like  eastern  spices,  that,  afresh, 

Do,  broken,  yield  their  best  perfume. 

To  drink  thy  blood,  so  freely  spilt, 

Methinks  is  awful,  strange  delight, — 
And  yet  each  drop  effaces  guilt, 

Its  currents  wash  my  crimson  white. 
As  new  in  vintage  drank,  the  wine 

Lies  choicest  on  the  palate,  so 
This,  tasted,  while  I  press  the  vine, 

Doth  life  and  joy  and  richness  show. 


(178) 

To  manifest,  till  Thou  shalt  come, 

Thy  dreadful  death  by  type  so  frail, 
Is  wondrous,  —  yet,  till  gathered  home, 

The  church  to  do  it  will  not  fail. 
While  dark  neglect  wraps  realms  and  kings, 

Shall  live  in  light,  years  cannot  dim, 
Memorials  of  most  precious  things  — 

The  Bread  and  Wine  and  simple  Hymn ! 


ZACCHEUS. 

He  sought  the  Saviour's  face  to  see, 
And  climbed  the  sycamore,  that  he, 
Secure  above  the  crowding  mass, 
Might  mark  the  wondrous  Prophet  pass. 

Stinted  in  soul,  dishonest,  mean, 
A  publican  ;  worse  than  unclean 
Was  he ;  the  people's  common  hate, 
Beyond  the  heathen  in  the  gate. 

Yet  he  must  needs  that  face  behold, 
Of  more,  said  Fame,  than  human  mould ; 
And  hark  !  a  thousand  voices'  hum 
Heralds  his  coming !  see  Him  come ;  — 


The  theme  of  David's  chorded  lyre, 
Of  whom  spake  seers  in  words  of  fire ; 
Whom  everlasting  years  saw  shine,  — 
My  hope,  to-day,  0  saint,  and  thine ! 


(179) 

He  comes,  in  meek  and  lowly  guise, 
Though  shouts  of  welcome  shake  the  skies. 
He  comes !  and  kingly  crowns  are  dim 
To  light  unseen,  that  circles  Him. 

In  auburn  locks,  his  parted  hair 
Lies  on  a  brow,  surpassing  fair ; 
His  beauteous  eyes  are  upward  cast, 
Scanning  his  home,  when  trial  's  past. 

Zaccheus  saw  the  Man,  the  God ;  — 
Yet  knew  not,  He,  who  toiling  trod 
With  weary  feet  the  dusty  way, 
Was  One  whom  eager  worlds  obey. 

He  met  that  upward  glance  with  fear; 
Ah,  publican !  he  sees  thee  here, 
And  to  the  rabble's  rage  will  give 
The  wretch,  they  deem  not  fit  to  live. 

He  sees!  —  but  those  mild  eyes  reveal 
Thoughts  of  a  heart  that  knows  to  feel ; 
He  hears!  —  but  music's  self  is  flung 
Forth  in  the  accents  of  that  tongue. 

"  Make  haste,  Zaccheus !  from  the  tree ; 
To-day  I  must  abide  with  thee." 
Abide  with  thee  !  —  his  heart  was  broke 
For  sin,  and  healed,  as  Jesus  spoke. 

Fruits  for  repentance,  straight  in  thought 
Conceived,  sprang  up,  and  ripe,  were  brought ; 
He  stood,  redeemed  —  a  man  new-made 
By  quickening  living  grace,  and  said : 


(180) 

"Behold,  0,  Lord!  the  half  of  all 
My  own  the  poor's  henceforth  I  call ; 
If  others'  goods  by  fraud  I  hold, 
I  now  restore  the  law's  fourfold." 

Redeemer !  has  thy  gospel  power 
Thus  sweetly,  in  auspicious  hour, 
To  win  the  heart,  the  stubborn  break  ? 
Such  change  can  Love  and  Mercy  make, 

By  thy  good  Spirit's  blessing  ?  —  then 
Instruct  me  thus  to  plead  with  men ; 
Nor,  with  a  rash,  repelling  frown, 
Command  the  sinning  rebel  down. 

But  ever  may  I  kindly  prove 
His  heart  with  messages  of  love ; 
And  speak,  when  wanderers  I  accost, 
Like  Thee,  who  came  to  save  the  lost. 

And  ever  ready  be,  as  Thou, 
To  woo,  and  win,  and  gently  bow 
The  honored  lordling  —  foe  to  Thee  — 
Or  scorned  Zaccheus  in  the  tree. 


THE   CHILD   REDEEMER. 


I  cannot  doubt,  that  Jesus  met, 
In  childhood,  jeers  and  scorn ; 

Ere  purple  mocked  him,  or  beset 
His  regal  brows  the  thorn. 


(181) 

I  cannot  doubt,  that  Nazareth's  cry 

Pursued  the  holy  Boy, 
Ere  Herod's  ":  men  of  war  "  did  try 

The  martyr  to  destroy. 

He  walks  abroad  —  the  same,  whose  feet 

Pressed  heaven's  eternal  floor, 
Ere  skies  were  taught  the  earth  to  greet, 

Or  seas  to  kiss  the  shore. 

His  patient  mien,  his  look  of  love, 

His  eye  of  tempered  flame, 
That  showed  the  eagle  with  the  dove, 

Might  surely  reverence  claim. 

His  parted  hair  of  graceful  curls, 

His  innocence  and  youth, 
The  words,  that  from  his  lips,  in  pearls, 

Dropped  out,  of  precious  Truth  — 

Might  teach,  methinks,  those  rabble-boys 

To  bless  the  ground  he  trod ; 
Yes !  join  in  one,  each  eager  voice, 

To  shout  a  present  God. 

They  worship  not  —  nor  know  that  He, 

Who  in  their  midst  is  seen, 
Is  One,  the  Chaldean  quaked  to  see 

His  darting  fires  between. 

Nor  deem  they  that  the  "  Fourth,"  in  form, 

AVho  trod  that  furnace  then, 
Is  here  to  quell  a  hotter  storm, 

That 's  kindled  up  for  men. 

16 


(182) 

And  so  they  mock  him,  flout  him,  vex 

Themselves,  to  vex  his  soul ; 
In  vain  —  they  cannot  him  perplex, 

Who  can  himself  control. 

How  often,  Saviour,  in  thy  walk, 

Thou  'st  met  with  sinful  me ; 
Thy  look  was  love  ;  all  love  thy  talk ; 

And  yet  I  knew  not  Thee. 

My  heart  misgives  me,  that  with  scorn 

I  used  the  heavenly  Guest ;  — 
Break,  break,  my  heart !  the  pride  be  shorn, 

That  rises  in  my  breast. 

Yet,  as  I  could  not  vex  thy  peace, 
Though  sore  thy  grace  I  grieved  — 

0,  bid  this  warring  tumult  cease, 
As  when  I  first  believed. 

Unchain  these  faculties,  that  lie 

Imprisoned  thus  in  sense  ; 
And  bid  the  fogs,  that  blind  me,  fly 

With  sin  for  ever  hence. 

And  lift  my  spirit,  that  inclines 
Thus  earthward,  to  thy  throne ;  — 

Undazzled  by  deceitful  shrines, 
To  bend  to  Thee  alone. 


(183) 


I 


THE   SABBATH  AND   THE  SANCTUARY. 

Right  glad  was  I,  when  round  me 

I  heard  sweet  voices  say, 
"  Come !  worship ! "  —  for  they  found  me 

All  ready  for  the  Day ; 
The  Day  of  truer  pleasure, 

Than  thousands  spent  in  sin ; 
The  Day  of  richer  treasure, 

Than  worlds  of  wealth  could  win. 

Right  glad  was  I,  when  pealing 

O'er  flowery  hill  and  glen, 
Came  call  of  bells,  revealing 

Repose  for  weary  men ; 
Their  joyful  music  telling, 

In  soothing  Sabbath  talk, 
That  Mind,  Earth's  care  dispelling, 

With  Heaven,  to-day,  may  walk. 

In  haste  thine  house  I  entered, 

Its  beauty  whispered,  "  Come  I " 
I  lowly  knelt  where  centred 

Of  all  my  hopes  the  sum. 
Cool,  clear,  and  living  waters 

In  streams  came  flowing  by ; 
Bread  for  earth's  sons  and  daughters 

Was  there  in  full  supply. 


(184) 

More  happy  in  a  corner 

Of  these  thy  courts  to  be, 
Than  yonder  sceptred  scorner, 

Who  claims  the  servile  knee ; 
Thy  doors  attend,  I  'd  rather,  — 

Thy  child  would  love  it  well,  - 
Than  in  the  tents,  my  Father ! 

Of  wickedness  to  dwell. 


To  my  fond  heart  how  proudly 

Goes  up  that  noble  song, 
When  David's  anthem  loudly 

Repeats  the  earnest  throng ! 
When  notes  of  solemn  sadness 

Confessions  make  to  heaven ; 
When  chords  are  swept  to  gladness, 

And  public  praise  is  given. 

Those  truths  —  my  heart  believes  them, 

As  coming  from  my  God  ; 
Those  truths  —  my  heart  receives  them, 

As  sealed  with  Jesus'  blood ; 
Now,  the  transporting  tidings, 

My  soul  leaps  up  to  hear ; 
Now,  salutary  chidings 

Impart  becoming  fear. 


I  love  the  Day,  if  o'er  me 
The  sky  in  tempest  lowers ; 

My  God  is  light  before  me, 
And  cloudless  are  my  hours ; 


(186) 

I  love  it,  if  iu  splendor 

The  azure  arch  is  dressed ; 
My  God,  what  shall  I  render 

For  this  bright  Day  of  Rest ! 

I  love  the  Day,  assisted 

By  health  to  spend  it  well ; 
Besetting  sin  resisted, 

And  weakened  folly's  spell ; 
That  strength  and  vigor  gladly 

I  consecrate  to  God, 
And  mourn  young  Health  so  sadly 

In  thoughtless  ways  has  trod. 

And  if  pale  Sickness  seizes 

This  frame,  I  love  the  day ; 
Thy  messengers,  Diseases, 

Will  not  forbid  to  pray. 
My  chamber  is  an  altar, 

My  heart  to  sing  is  free ; 
Its  praises,  though  they  falter, 

Are  heard,  my  God,  by  Thee. 

I  '11  love  the  Day,  when  dying ; 

How  blest  the  Sabbath  time, 
In  Death's  embraces  lying, 

To  hear  the  Sabbath  chime ! 
On  Him,  who  Death  is  routing, 

In  quivering  prayer  to  call, 
To  Him,  who 's  Victor,  shouting, 

And  in  his  arms  to  fall ! 

16* 


(186) 

0  tell  me  not  that  Zion, 

All  pearls  and  gems,  sits  queen ; 
That  splendor's  where  the  Lion 

Of  Judah's  tribe  is  seen ; 
But  tell  me  yon  broad  heaven 

A  Temple  is  to  view ; 
Its  Day,  one  Sabbath  given,  — 

And  I  will  worship  too  ! 


NIAGARA. 

Niagara  !  —  the  poetry  of  God ! 
Whose  numbers  tell,  in  everlasting  hymn, 
Only  of  God  !     The  morning  stars  that  woke 
Music  along  their  courses,  early  caught 
Its  far-off  echoes,  and  in  wild  delight 
Eeturned  them,  softened,  round  the  universe. 
Think  not,  think  not,  Earth's  triflers !  that  for  you 
And  garish  Day,  these  melodies  chime  on. 
When  ye,  diminished,  lost,  are  known  not,  Night, 
Night  to  the  awful  anthem  ever  hearkens, 
And  ever  with  new  joy.     Oh,  how  sublime 
The  symphony,  that,  under  the  expanse 
Of  stars,  peals  on  in  unexhausted  power; 
Niagara !  —  and  the  sole  listener,  Night ! 


(187) 


ORDINATION. 

"Who  shall,  with  blessing,  lift  abroad 

His  hand  unto  thy  holy  hill,  — 
Be  shepherd  of  thy  chosen,  Lord, 

And  show  these  worshipers  thy  will  ? 

He  that  uprightly  walks,  and  works 
With  single  purpose,  righteousness  — 

In  whose  heart,  look,  or  language,  lurks 
Nor  folly,  pride,  nor  wickedness : 

He,  nor  presuming,  rash,  nor  vain, 

Yet  strong,  because  he  always  fears ;  — 

He,  that  repulsed,  will  urge  again 

For  God,  and  warn  and  win  with  tears : 

He  that  will  keep,  with  toil  unpriced, 

His  skirts  from  blood,  and  souls  from  loss, 

He  that  will  nothing  know  save  Christ, 
And  the  sweet  science  of  the  Cross : 

Gently,  along  this  pleasant  way, 
The  aged  of  the  flock  shall  lead; 

And.  lest  the  little  lambs  should  stray, 
Will  them  by  fountains  guide  and  feed. 

When  the  Chief  Shepherd  shall  appear, 

He  shall  appear  in  glory,  too ; 
And  of  his  charge,  watched  over  here, 

Show  thousands,  brought  in  safety  through. 


(188) 


A  HEAVEN  OF  HOLINESS. 

r 

"  The  thought  of  a  heaven  of  holiness  is  my  solace."  —  James  Brainerd 
Taylor. 

Sweet  Heaven !  to  know  thee  holy, 

Were  dearer  to  my  soul, 
Than  sight  of  all  the  glory 

Whose  seas  about  thee  roll. 
The  floods  of  splendor,  streaming 

From  ecstacies  of  light, 
To  purity  there  beaming, 

My  God,  were  only  night ! 

Sweet  Heaven  !  the  song  of  gladness 

That  thrills  the  upper  air, 
To  me  were  note  of  sadness, 

If  "  Holy "  were  not  there. 
No  more  to  bright  harps  given 

On  holiness  to  dwell  — 
Its  bliss  would  fly,  and  heaven 

Be  but  a  better  hell. 

Sweet  Heaven  !  where  saints  are  singing, 

Where  angels  join  the  lay, 
To  thee  I  would  be  winging 

My  upward,  homeward  way;  — 
Where  crystal  walls  forever 

Show  holiness  within, 
Where  golden  gates  ope  never 

To  sorrow,  death,  or  sin ! 


(189) 


THE   CONGREGATIONAL   CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA. 

I  "m  glad  that  at  length  the  materials  appearing, 

Prepared  for  the  builder,  and  piled  in  our  street, 
Proclaim  that  the  pious,  unwearied,  are  rearing 

A  dome  where  the  sons  of  the  pilgrims  may  meet ; 
A  place  where  the  cares  that  the  week  sets  in  motion, 

The  bustle  of  business,  the  world  and  its  dreams, 
May  fade  in  the  nobler  pursuits  of  devotion, 

When  the  Sabbath  of  rest  Heaven's  antepast  seems. 

I  'm  glad,  that  with  hallowed  monition,  a  spire 

Will  rise  from  these  precincts,  and  touchingly  tell 
That  here  men  may  come  and  learn  destinies  higher 

Than  earth's,  at  the  call  of  the  "  church-going  bell." 
That  here  is  appointed  the  ark's  holy  station ; 

And  down  to  posterity,  still  on  this  ground 
Made  sacred  alone  by  the  Dove's  consecration, 

Will  manna  at  morning  and  evening  be  found. 

I  'm  glad,  for  the  bliss  that  in  boyhood  I  tasted, 

I  hope  in  this  edifice  yet  to  renew ; 
When  up  to  the  meeting-house  duly  I  hasted, 

And  sat  with  the  rest  in  the  family  pew ; 
And  listened  with  reverence,  and  made  my  endeavor 

To  fasten  on  memory  the  chapter  and  text ; 
And  watched  the  good  minister,  though  I  could  never 

The  argument  scan  that  my  reason  perplexed. 

I  'm  glad,  for  remembrance  yet  lingers  around  him, 
The  man  of  three-score,  whom  sincerely  I  thought 

Unrivalled  ;  —  the  ties  to  his  people  that  bound  him, 
I  knew  nor  by  meanness  nor  flattery  were  bought. 


o= 


(190) 

And  years  as  they  passed  more  his  goodness  revealing, 
Endeared  him  yet  more  to  the  hearts  he  had  won ; 

Refreshing  e'en  now  to  the  soul's  languid  feeling, 
Are  thoughts  of  that  warrior  whose  conflict  is  done ! 

I  'm  glad,  for  though  he  has  his  pilgrimage  ended, 

And  many  about  him  in  vigor  and  bloom, 
And  most  of  the  aged,  with  him  have  descended 

To  final  repose,  and  are  lodged  in  the  tomb  — 
I  love  to  think  of  them;  the  soothing  reflection 

Of  days  long  departed,  to  me  has  no  dread ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  retrace  them,  nor  is  there  dejection 

In  thoughts  of  old  scenes,  old  delights,  and  the  dead. 

And  proudly  a  son  of  New  England  will  cherish 

The  customs  that  absence  but  serves  to  endear ; 
He  may  measure  earth's  kingdoms,  but  never  shall  perish 

The  smile  of  his  childhood,  or  infancy's  tear ! 
And,  therefore,  I  'm  glad  that  my  fond  recollection 

May  here  be  excited  to  look  on  the  past ; 
This  house,  with  its  ritual,  will  call  up  affection 

For  much  that  was  pleasant  —  too  pleasant  to  last ! 

I  'm  glad,  for  I  know  that  the  heart  of  the  ranger 

These  walls  will  remind  of  the  home  of  his  love, 
As  here  in  his  worship  he  joins  with  the  stranger, 

In  the  way  of  his  fathers,  now  gathered  above. 
And  here  the  sojourner,  with  sweeter  emotion, 

Will  take  of  the  hope  that  Religion  inspires, 
As  mingles  unchecked  in  the  tide  of  devotion, 

A  spiritual  thought  of  the  land  of  his  sires. 

I  'm  glad,  for  unvexed,  by  disquiet  that 's  reigning 
So  sadly,  where  strife,  most  of  all,  ought  to  cease, 


(  191  ) 

Here  a  church  may  be  banded,  intent  upon  gaining 
Recruits  to  the  flag  of  the  Captain  of  Peace. 

And  ever  may  concord,  the  bond  of  the  Spirit, 
In  one  join  its  members,  thus  truly  to  live ; 

As  sons  and  as  daughters,  each  bosom  inherit 

The  peace,  passing  knowledge,  He  only  can  give ! 

I  'm  glad,  for  I  hope  that  to  ages  will  flourish 

Within  this  enclosure,  the  plants  of  the  Lord ; 
And  grace  from  his  treasury  like  showers  will  nourish 

The  trees  that  are  full  of  the  sap  of  the  word. 
And  here  would  I  hope  that  the  principles  tested 

So  long  in  old  Plymouth  —  so  fitted  to  mock 
The  assaultings  of  error  —  may  thrive  unmolested, 

Our  pride,  too,  as  theirs,  who  first  stepped  on  the  Rock ! 

I  'm  glad,  for  a  watchman  they  Ve  called  to  this  tower, 

From  the  shrine  of  the  Stoddards  and  Edwards  he  came, 
Whose  message  already  gives  token  of  power, 

Whose  zeal  is  of  pure  evangelical  flame. 
And  long  may  this  lamp  of  the  fresh  oil  be  lighted, 

Fed  richly  by  unction  that  cometh  from  high  — 
And  burn  on  the  pathway,  where  thousands,  benighted, 

Shall  gaze,  and  in  penitence  turn  to  the  sky. 

I  'm  glad,  then,  at  length  the  materials  appearing, 

Prepared  for  the  builder,  and  piled  in  our  street, 
Proclaim  that  the  pious,  unwearied,  are  rearing 

A  dome  where  the  sons  of  the  pilgrims  may  meet. 
Oh !  Thou  who  hast  laid,  to  the  shame  of  the  scorner, 

In  Zion,  foundations  —  who  only  art  skilled 
To  plan  thine  own  glory  —  the  Keystone  and  Corner, 

To  Thee,  blessed  Trinity  !  only  they  build. 


(192) 


THE   GOOD. 

"  His  life  hath  flowed, 
A  sacred  stream, 
In  whose  calm  depth  the  beautiful  and  pure 
Alone  are  mirrored ;  which,  though  shapes  of  ill 
Slay  hover  round  its  surface,  glides  in  light, 
And  takes  no  shadow  from  them."  —  Ion. 

Such  is  the  Good !  —  Go,  thou,  survey  the  Good, 

Not  in  his  holiday  of  hopes  and  joys, 

But  when  life's  task  is  done.     Look  at  that  life ! 

Yes,  scrutinize  its  doings.     Lo,  the  long 

And  chequered  scroll,  though  blotted  here  and  there 

With  human  frailty,  shows  no  dastard  deed 

Of  meanness,  cruelty,  dishonoring  wrong, 

Or  aught,  that  in  the  sight  of  angels,  men, 

Or  God,  shall  make  him  hang  his  head  in  shame. 

True,  he  has  wandered  —  who  has  not  ?  —  yet  he 

Back,  like  a  child,  repenting,  has  returned, 

And  sought  and  found  forgiveness.     Oh,  how  warm 

Were  love's  strong  gushings  to  his  Father,  then, 

And  gratitude,  and  sorrow  for  his  fault, 

While,  like  a  swelling  river,  joy  and  grief 

Rose  in  his  bosom,  and  found  sweet  relief 

In  sacred  tears ! 

Evenly  has  he  trod 
Life's  devious  way ;  the  friend  of  honest  worth, 
Though  clad  in  poverty.     His  step  I  've  seen 
Directed  often  to  the  low  abode 
Of  such ;  't  was  his  with  kindly  hand  to  dry 
The  trickling  sorrows  of  the  fatherless ; 


I 


(193) 

And  he  would  cause  the  widow's  heart  aloud 
To  sing  for  joy.     The  servant  of  his  God,  — 
Not  vaunting  of  his  deeds,  but  trusting  Him 
Who  once  trod  Calvary,  —  he  journeyed  on 
The  time  appointed,  and  at  last  laid  down, 
Serenely,  at  his  Master's  call,  and  died. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

"  And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab,  over  against  Beth- 
peor." — Deut.  xxxiv.  6. 

To  gorgeous  burial  goes  the  monarch, 

With  scarf,  and  mute,  and  nodding  plume,  — 

The  glitter,  that  flashed  o'er  his  cradle, 
Settles  around  his  costly  tomb. 

To  burial,  with  a  grievous  mourning, 
The  starred  and  laureled  hero  goes ; 

And  muffled  drum  and  solemn  trumpet 
Ring  out  a  stricken  nation's  woes. 

And  brows  of  wisdom  are  uncovered, 
And  hoary  heads  in  grief  are  bent, 

When  he  to  senseless  clay  is  gathered, 
Whose  spirit  searched  the  firmament ; 

And  trod  the  fields,  thick  sown  with  planets, 
And  traced  out  Nature's  secret  laws ; 

And  followed,  in  their  mighty  courses, 

Suns,  stars,  and  worlds,  to  their  First  Cause. 

17 


(194) 

With  simple  rite,  the  village  maiden  — 
Cut  down  like  some  sweet  flower  at  eve  — 

In  all  her  loveliness  is  buried, 

And  rifled  hearts  are  left  to  grieve. 

To  earth  the  little  casket 's  given, 
That  lately  held  a  precious  gem ; 

Oh,  mother  !  wast  thou  wholly  willing 
To  yield  it  for  God's  diadem  ? 

There  's  hollow  woe,  there  's  genuine  feeling, 
When  dust  is  given  back  to  dust ; 

Some  are  resigned  by  sweet  Religion ; 
Some  acquiesce,  because  they  must. 

Yet  of  the  burials  Time  has  witnessed, 

None  in  simplicity  may  vie, 
None  in  their  state  with  that  of  Moses, 

Who  went  up  Nebo's  top  to  die. 

What  lofty  obsequies  were  rendered 

That  hour  when  Darkness  held  the  pall ! 

What  pomp,  where  stood,  in  clouds  pavilioned, 
The  silent,  present,  Lord  of  All ! 

How  blest  the  man  whose  dust  Jehovah 
Hid  in  a  grave  that 's  yet  untrod ! 

Thrice  blessed  he,  that  soul  most  happy, 
Whose  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God  ! 


(195) 


SIN  AMONG  THE  SINGERS. 

Dis coursers  on  the  vocal  string, 
And  viol-chords  of  solemn  cheer,  — 

Without  the  Spirit's  offering 

What  do  ye,  dulcet  triflers,  here  ? 

Deem  ye  severest  art  and  skill 

To  chime  the  song  with  due  accord, 

And  wake  the  organ's  voice  at  will, 
To  soft  or  deep,  will  please  the  Lord  ? 

Exact  may  be  the  leader's  taste, 
And  faultless,  execution's  touch, 

And  yet  on  air  the  tones  may  waste, 
And  yet  the  heart  be  steeled  by  such. 

Unlike  the  strains  that  sweetly  rose 
And  swelled  along  the  Syrian  sky, 

Whose  theme  was  end  to  mortal  woes, 
Whose  burden  was  a  Saviour  nigh. 

Unlike  Redemption's  hymns,  which  they 
Who  touch  the  thunder-harps  above, 

In  humble  awe  and  reverence  play  — 
The  humfller  for  their  earnest  love. 

If  praise  for  science  be  your  aim, 
Ye  only  will  secure  His  frown, 

Who,  jealous  for  His  holy  Name, 
With  Music  will  not  share  the  crown. 


(196) 

He  hates  such  harmony  —  its  breath 
Of  mellow  flutes,  or  trumpets'  blast, 

Is  but  the  sullen  wail  of  death, 

When  life  and  soul  of  song  are  past. 


THE  HEAVENLY  REST. 

Know  ye  the  earth,  on  which  ye  tread, 
Is  a  pleasant  garden,  merrily  spread 
With  fruits  of  the  best,  with  earliest  flowers, 
Dimpled  with  dells  and  decked  with  bowers,  — 
That  the  saint,  nigh  to  faint,  may  rest  him  there, 
And  the  heart  may  part  with  its  griefs  in  prayer ; 
And  taste  those  draughts  of  the  ravishing  love 
That  flows  in  the  bosoms  of  the  blest  above  ? 

Know  ye  the  earth,  so  pleasant  to-day, 
Will  pass,  with  its  fruits  and  flowers,  away  ? 
That  its  best  and  earliest  show  in  their  bloom 
The  blight  of  death,  and  decay  of  the  tomb,  — 
And  the  light  so  bright  to  the  dazzled  eye, 
Which  gleams  and  streams  on  its  morning  sky, 
Will  fade  as  the  cloud  that  twilight  sees 
Melt  from  the  heavens  with  ev«ring's  breeze  — 
And  the  peace  that  the  pilgrim  sought  to  know, 
He  learns,  in  his  sorrow,  is  not  below  ? 

Know  ye  there  remaineth  a  Heavenly  Rest 
For  the  weary  one,  and  the  care -oppressed  — 


(197) 

That  ye  need  not  seek  it  on  earth  abroad, 
'T  is  barren  of  bliss  for  the  sons  of  God,  — 
That  the  saint  will  faint  in  its  path  of  care, 
And  sigh  and  die,  who  rests  him  there ; 

That  above,  in  bowers 

"Where  the  deathless  flowers 

Of  holiness  bloom, 

No  blight  of  the  tomb 
Can  come,  —  where  sparkling  rivers  of  bliss 
Murmur  on,  as  the  margins  of  beauty  they  kiss  ? 


NEW  ORGAN  IN  CHRIST  CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA. 

They  'ye  reared  the  organ.     He,*  whose  fond  desire 

It  was  to  beautify  this  hoary  pile, 

Whose  pleasant  voice  once  lingered  in  its  aisle, 

Is  absent  from  the  service.     Lo,  this  spire, 

Antique  and  venerable,  looketh  down, 

As  for  a  century  it  hath,  upon  our  town ; 

The  doors  are  open  still ;  along  these  walls 

Swells  noble  minstrelsy ;  but  now  no  calls 

Of  love,  persuasive,  from  his  lips  shall  come  — 

The  pastor  that  hath  wooed  for  Christ  is  dumb. 

Dumb  ?     No  !  his  song  is  where  ten  thousand  times 

Ten  thousand  bow  ;  where  the  melodious  chimes 

Sound,  as  abroad  the  heaven  of  heavens  they  roll  — 

The  Diapason  of  the  ransomed  soul ! 

*  The  late  Rev.  J.  W.  James,  Rector  of  Christ  Church. 

17* 


0= 


(198) 


VIKGINIA  A.  D****. 

Hast  thou  never  seen, 

When  the  orb  of  day 
Lightens  with  his  sheen 

Dark  Niagara, 
How  his  glories  act 

On  the  foam,  and  show, 
O'er  the  cataract, 

Heaven's  beauteous  bow  ? 
She,  who  lately  plumed  for  flight,  seeking  rest  above, 
Saw  thus  over  Jordan's  tide,  arched,  the  bow  of  Love. 

Hath,  at  eve,  thine  eye 

Watched  the  little  billow 
Rise  and  gleam  and  die, 

On  Atlantic's  pillow  — 
When  it  seemed  to  thee 

Sighing  into  rest, 
Melting  peacefully 
Into  ocean's  breast  ? 
She,  as  kindly  in  repose,  sighed  away  her  breath, 
Peacefully  and  gently  thus,  blended  into  death. 

Saw'st  thou,  when,  in  light, 

Sabbath  glories  rose  ? 
She,  a  Sabbath,  bright, 

Saw,  yet  not  like  those. 

==€ 


(199) 

Longed  she  then  to  go, 

Rest  above,  to  spend  ? 
Yes !  begun  below, 

Rest  that  ne'er  shall  end. 
Voices  heard  she,  loved  ones  saw,  sweetly  from  the  sky 
Beckoning  to  their  holy  home,  wooing  her  to  die. 

In  the  final  hour, 

In  the  hour  of  doom, 
When  disease  hath  power, 

When  appears  the  tomb  — 
Where  's  the  Sovereign  Arm, 

Strong  and  sure  to  save  ? 
What  can  chase  alarm  ? 
What  adorn  the  grave  ? 
She  could  answer,  He  was  there,  well,  the  sufferer  knew, 
He  that  through  the  grave  had  passed,  strong  to  bear  her 
through. 

When  Niagara 

Lifts  his  bow  no  more, 
When  have  fled  away 

Ocean  and  the  shore,  — 
She  shall  live  again, 

Where  the  mortal  sigh 
Heaves  not,  and  where  pain, 

Yes !  and  Death  shall  die. 
She,  a  child,  a  seraph  now,  leans  on  Jesus'  breast, 
Oh,  for  wings  !  that  we  might  be,  sweet  one !  thus  at  rest 


(200) 

SACRED   SONG. 

How  shall  I  cherish  the  desire 
That  often  kindles  in  my  breast, 

0  distant  God !  to  draw  yet  nigher 
Thy  seat  of  holiness  and  rest  ? 

1  long  to  loose  the  hold  that  clings 

To  earth,  the  chain  that  binds  to  sin ; 
When  will  my  spirit  plume  her  wings, 
Soar  to  thy  love,  and  enter  in  ? 

When  will  she  cease  to  quench  her  thirst 
In  streams  that  mock  her  with  their  shine ; 

And  drink  of  cool,  sweet  wells  that  burst 
Sparkling  and  true  from  founts  divine  ? 

When  cease,  a  prodigal,  to  feed 

On  husks  that  far  from  home  are  found ; 

And  gather,  for  her  daily  need, 

Manna,  that  whitens  all  the  ground  ? 

I  loath  this  fond,  uncertain  grief; 

Abhor  these  evanescent  tears  ; 
This  faith,  that  is  not  firm  belief; 

These  weary  doubts,  these  fitful  fears. 

I  hate  this  changeful  flight  of  prayer ; 

Now  on  the  mount,  and  now  below ; 
Now  building  tabernacles  there ; 

Now  groveling  here,  in  listless  woe. 

Consistent,  fixed,  unwavering,  true  — 

I  long,  I  pant,  I  cry  to  be ; 
Creator !  thine  own  work  renew, 

And  bid  it  to  resemble  Thee, 


(201) 


THE   MORNING   STAR. 

11 1  am  the  Root  and  the  Offspring  of  David,  and  the  Bright  and  Morning 
Star."  —  Revelation,  xxii.  16. 

Benighted  on  the  troublous  main, 

While  stormy  terrors  clothe  the  sky, 
The  trembling  voyager  strives  in  vain, 

And  nought  but  stern  despair  is  nigh ; 
When  lo  !  a  gem  of  peerless  light, 

With  radiant  splendor,  shines  afar ; 
And  through  the  clouds  of  darkest  night, 

Appears  the  Bright  and  Morning  Star  ! 

With  joy  he  greets  the  cheering  ray, 

That  beams  on  Ocean's  weary  breast ; 
Precursor  of  a  smiling  day, 

It  lulls  his  fears  to  peaceful  rest ; 
No  more  in  peril  shall  he  roam, 

For  night  and  danger  now  are  far ; 
With  steady  helm  he  enters  home, 

His  guide  the  Bright  and  Morning  Star ! 

Thus,  when  affliction's  billows  roll, 

And  waves  of  sorrow  and  of  sin 
Beset  the  fearful,  weeping  soul, 

And  all  is  dark  and  drear  within  — 
'T  is  Jesus,  whispering  strains  of  peace, 

Drives  every  doubt  and  fear  afar; 
He  bids  the  raging  tempest  cease, 

And  shines  the  Bright  and  Morning  Star ! 


(202) 


TO  MY  BOY. 

I  hailed  thy  launching  forth  to  life, 
And  gazed  on  thee  with  busy  joy ; 

Nor  dreamed  I  of  the  frequent  strife 
Thou  'dst  meet  upon  that  sea,  my  Boy ! 

Slender  vessel  on  the  deep, 

Where  the  angry  tempests  sweep. 

I  lingered  at  thy  pouting  mouth, 
How  often !  for  the  parent's  bliss ; 

And  cared  not  for  the  fragrant  South, 
When  taking  thence  the  balmy  kiss ;  — 

Talk  of  pleasure !  —  boasting  Earth 

Yields  none  of  a  purer  birth. 

I  watched  thy  growth,  and  sometimes  fears 
And  sometimes  precious  hopes  I  had; 

These  last  prevailed,  as,  swiftly,  years 
Revealed  to  me  the  comely  lad. 

Health  and  beauty  on  his  brow  — 

Pride  !  thou  'rt  busy  with  me  now. 

Yet  I  confess  those  raptures  fade, 

Their  very  recollections  die, 
Compared  with  bliss  that 's  on  me  laid, 

That  crowns  my  cup,  to-day,  as  I 
See  thee  thus  in  early  bloom, 
Vows,  that  bind  to  God,  assume. 


@= 


(203) 

To  cause  such  joy  there 's  something  more 
Than  Childhood's  graces  can  impart, 

And  not  from  earth  is  delved  the  store 

With  which  Heaven  fills  the  parent's  heart, 

When,  subdued  by  love,  his  son 

Is  to  meek  Religion  won. 


FOK  MY   CHILD. 

0  Lord  my  God !  I  would  not  seek 
Those  glances  that  the  guilty  shun, 

Only  that  thou  hast  said,  the  weak 
Have  fellowship  with  Christ,  thy  Son. 

And  though  earth's  proud  ones  may  not  meet 
Acceptance  where  thy  chosen  pray,  — 

In  helplessness,  before  thy  feet, 
Where  angels  kneel,  a  father  may. 

He  comes  to  thee  in  confidence, 
A  pleader  for  his  offspring  now ; 

Thou  'It  hear !  for  in  Judea  once 
The  robe  of  Childhood  worest  Thou. 

And  only  thou  didst  give  these  ties, 

Pure  kindlings  —  this  dark  world  to  cheer ; 

To  whom,  then,  should  a  father's  cries 
Be  gathered,  save  unto  thine  ear? 

Thine  ear !  —  that  hears  the  lowest  sigh 
Breathed  from  this  night  of  sighs,  as  soon 

As  trumpet  tones  that  ring  on  high 
The  joys  of  thy  eternal  noon. 


(204) 

I  know  what  hope's  revealings  are, 
And  faith  her  vision  lends  to  me, 

When,  with  the  giant  arm  of  prayer, 
I  lift  my  child,  O  Lord,  to  Thee. 

Thou  'It  hear !  —  and  jet  what  form  of  speech 

Shall  all  a  father's  heart  reveal, 
"When  every  pulse  the  throne  would  reach, 

When  in  my  agony  I  kneel, 

And  ask  that  He  who  stills  the  wave, 
Who  touches,  and  in  wrath  't  is  curled, 

Will  save  him  who  goes  forth  to  brave 
The  deeps  of  an  unquiet  world ! 

Thou,  who  didst  mould  his  perfect  form, 
And  round  it  bid  the  life-blood  roll, 

And,  kindling  blushes  pure  and  warm, 
Informed  it  with  a  conscious  soul,  — 

Who  else  but  Thee  can  cause  to  run 

In  holy  ways,  his  faltering  feet ; 
And  fling  around  that  trusting  one, 

The  Arm  that  back  the  storm  shall  beat  ? 

But  Thee,  to  whom  I  gave  him,  when 
Baptismal  waters  bathed  his  brow  ? 

Thy  promise  calmed  my  spirit  then ; 
Eenew  it,  for  I  yield  him  now. 


@= 


(205) 


PRAYER  DURING  A  PESTILENCE. 

0  Thou  Unseen,  Almighty  God ! 

That  rulest  in  power  alone ; 
Afflicted  by  thy  righteous  rod, 

We  come  before  the  throne. 

And  thou  wilt  never  bid  "  depart "  — 
When  our  frail  offerings  rise ; 

For  Thou  hast  said,  the  broken  heart 
Is  our  best  sacrifice. 

With  earnest  tears,  we  intercede 

For  thy  paternal  care ; 
And,  self-abased,  do  humbly  plead 

In  penitential  prayer. 

Our  city  weeps  in  lowly  dust, 

Bowed  by  the  hand  Divine ; 
And  still  she  owns  thy  dealings  just, 

For  judgement,  Lord,  is  thine. 

Yet  while  Thou  ridest  in  frowning  mien, 
And  holdest  the  balance  true, 

0  God !  while  thy  dread  scourge  is  seen, 
Let  Pity  triumph  too. 

Though  justice  is  thy  diadem, 

And  wrath  is  thine  alone, 
Yet  Mercy  shines,  the  brightest  gem 

Around  thy  glorious  throne. 


18 


(206) 


ARROWS. 

I  saw  thee  faint,  the  hour  when  came 
The  arrow,  with  unerring  aim, 
To  pierce  thy  first-born  ;  yet  thy  God 
I  knew  could  heal,  though  sharp  the  rod. 
And  now,  when  scarcely  fourteen  days 
Have  passed,  the  second  arrow  slays 
The  last  survivor,  and  the  tomb 
Again  has  sunlight  on  its  gloom, 
To  show  where  with  the  newly  dead 
Another  child  may  lay  its  head. 

Thrice  has  such  message  at  my  door, 
In  by-gone  days,  been  told.     Ay,  more 
Than  this  —  four  precious  ones,  that  blest 
My  heart  and  home,  are  now  at  rest. 
I  know  what 't  is,  long  nights  to  watch 
The  helpless  sufferer,  and  to  notch 
Each  hour  on  Sorrow's  tablet.     Yes, 
To  take  the  last  pure  breath,  and  kiss 
Away  Death's  damp  from  lip  and  brow. 
To  meet  all  this,  and  meekly  bow, 
All  this,  and  own  His  "  will  be  done," 
Is  victory  —  yet  it  may  be  won. 

Weep  freely  —  Nature  asks  the  tear  — 
Weep,  as  keen  memory  brings  so  near 
The  thousand  nameless,  witching  charms 
Of  those  that  lately  filled  your  arms. 


u— 


(207) 

"Weep,  as  flit  by  the  hopes  that  played 

On  life's  horizon,  when,  arrayed 

In  rainbow  tints,  thou  sawest  the  bow 

Of  promise  for  thy  loved  ones  glow. 

Yet  weep  resignedly ;  each  grace 

Is  clustered  in  a  glorious  place. 

Yes,  weep  with  joy !  those  cherubs  shine 

Where  all  is  real,  all  divine. 


HYMN, 


Sung  at  the  Two  Hundred  and  Tenth  Anniversary  of  the  First  Congre- 
gational Church  in  Charlestown,  Mass.,  Nov.  13,  1S42. 

God  of  our  fathers !  while  our  ears 

Shall  hear  the  chronicles  of  old  — 
Thy  wondrous  deeds  in  ancient  years, 

Which  sires  unto  their  sons  have  told ;  — 

While  our  eyes  see  in  History's  glass 

The  red  man  of  unconquered  will, 
And  the  pale  patient  pilgrim  pass, 

Where  once  he  dwelt,  along  this  hill ;  — 

While  we  review  the  way  they  trod 

Of  woe,  and  want,  and  war's  grim  curse,  — 

Afflictions  met  for  love  of  God, 

Privations  borne,  in  faith,  for  us ;  — 

May  we  their  spirit  catch,  and  give 
Ourselves,  anew,  to  Truth  and  Thee ; 

And  like  those  worthies,  dare  to  live 
Freemen  in  Christ  —  the  only  Free! 


(208) 


BLESSING  THE  BATTLE. 

"Father!  I  call  on  thee! 
Clouds  of  the  cannon  smoke  around  me  are  wreathing ; 
Guider  of  battles,  I  call  on  Thee  !  " 

Korner's  Prayer  during  Fight, 

It  may  be  that  the  weal  of  nations 

Their  honor  scorned  or  questioned  right 

Kequire,  indeed,  no  lesser  umpire 
To  arbitrate,  than  ruthless  fight. 

It  may  be  that  the  ringing  trumpet, 
And  piercing  fife,  and  sullen  drum, 

And  garments  rolled  in  blood,  and  murmurs, 
Discordant,  of  the  battle's  hum ;  — 

Shrieks  of  the  wounded  and  the  dying, 
The  wreck  of  limb  and  waste  of  life, 

The  fury  of  devouring  carnage, 

And  all  the  circumstance  of  strife ;  — 

Are  necessary  to  the  order 

And  comfort  of  this  world  of  ours, 

Which  has  no  sweet  without  a  bitter, 
Nor  without  thorns  possesses  flowers. 

And  yet  when  brothers  murder  brothers, 
To  ask  God's  blessing  on  the  deed, 

And  crave  his  grace  where  cruel  Slaughter 
Leaves  widowed  hearts  behind  to  bleed, 

Is  urging  far  the  holy  mockery,  — 

Is  acting  farce  to  Mercy's  view ; 
I  may  be  wrong,  for  Honor 's  something,  — 

Man  on  a  death-bed !  what  think  you  ? 


(  209) 


THE  TEMPLE. 

He  sought  Moriah's  walls, 

That  heaved  to  heaven  in  pride  ; 

The  Temple,  like  whose  glorious  halls, 
The  world  had  nought  beside. 

He  entered  —  't  was  His  own  ; 

Of  nations  called  the  house  of  prayer ; 
But  money-changers  filled  his  throne, 

And  Traffic's  foot  was  there. 

Woke,  at  his  watchful  nod, 

Thunders  for  the  offence  ? 
No  —  with  a  word  the  Son  of  God 

Cast  the  defilers  thence : 

The  merchant  from  his  courts, 

The  doves,  the  changers,  and  their  gold ; 
And  silenced  the  confused  reports 

Of  men  that  bought  and  sold. 

Thus  near  the  Saviour  drew 

The  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost  — 

My  heart,  that  sheltered,  still  untrue, 
Folly's  tumultuous  host. 

The  Master's  once  it  was, 

But  others  had  possession  found ; 

And  where  He  should  have  given  laws, 
His  enemy  was  crowned. 


18* 


(  210  ) 

With  a  reproving  frown, 

To  see  his  altar  dimmed  by  sin, — 
The  gates  of  beauty  broken  down, 

The  world  come  trooping  in,  — 

He,  with  a  scourge  of  cords, 

Drove  every  idol  thence. 
'T  was  sharp,  —  yet  kind ;  my  gracious  Lord's 

This  temple  has  been  since. 


THE   SAILOR  BOY. 

Arise,  0  Lord  !  look  kindly  on  the  deep 

Dark  waters,  which  thy  mighty  hand  outflung ; 

Whose  wondrous,  awful  beauty  bards  have  sung 

And  still  exhausted  not     While  thy  winds  sweep 

Their  moaning  surface,  and  the  billows  leap 

Up  to  the  heavens ;  when  the  storm's  knell  is  rung, 

And  every  wave,  tumultuous,  hath  a  tongue 

Telling  of  God,  who  doth  its  fury  keep 

And  who  doth  give  it  bridle  —  0,  look  down 

In  pity  on  that  far-off  widow's  joy  — 

Her  only  hope,  her  comfort !     Do  not  frown 

Upon  her  prayer  at  this  rough  midnight  hour ; 

But  speak !  and  spoil  the  dreadful  tempest's  power, 

And  spare  to  her  lone  love  her  Sailor  Boy  ! 


(211) 


WALKING   ON  THE   SEA. 

"  And  about  the  fourth  watch  of  the  night  he  cometh  unto  them  walking 
upon  the  sea."  — Mark,  vi.  48. 

Tiberias  battles  with  the  storm ; 

And  hark !  its  waters  cry 
To  sweeping  winds,  that  answer  give 

From  out  the  troubled  sky. 

And  lo !  upon  its  raving  tide, 

How  awfully  serene 
He  walks,  who,  in  the  furnace,  once, 

Unscathed,  the  "  Fourth  "  was  seen. 

He  walks  the  waves !  the  rebel  waves 

In  deep  submission  lie ; 
The  wild  winds  hear  his  tread,  and  cease, 

When  Jesus  passes  by. 

And  in  my  spirit  lurks  a  storm ; 

Here  chafes  the  angry  sea ; 
And  wild  winds  here  lift  up  their  voice, 

And  rage  continually. 

Rebuke  these  waves,  Redeemer !  they 

Shall  slumber  at  thy  call ; 
Oh,  move  amid  these  winds,  —  the  winds 

Shall  at  thy  presence  fall ! 


(212) 


RETURN  OF  THE  JEWS. 

Will  he  never  return? — will  the  Jew- 
In  exile,  eternally  pine  ? 

By  the  multitude  scorned,  pitied  only  by  few, 

Will  he  never  his  vows  to  Jehovah  renew 
Beneath  his  own  olive  and  vine  ? 

Will  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  to  him  burn 

For  aye,  who  the  Nazarene  vexed  ? 
Will  not  the  Lord's  slayer  in  penitence  learn, 
And  the  nailer,  and  spearman,  and  mocker  return, 

For  the  crime  deeply  stirred  and  perplexed  ? 

Will  he  dwell  with  the  Gentiles,  who  slight 

His  shrine,  and  make  traffic  their  god  ? 
Slink  in  alleys  and  avenues,  where  the  dark  rite 
Of  London  is  offered  to  Gold,  day  and  night  — 

Whose  fathers  Jerusalem  trod  ? 

Will  he  yield  up  his  treasures  of  wealth 

On  the  rack,  at  the  gibbet  and  stake  ? 
Shall  his  wife,  daughters,  sons,  shall  his  ease  and  his  health, 
Ay,  and  life,  be  cut  off,  or  enjoyed  but  in  stealth? 

Shall  he  not  from  such  tyranny  break  ? 

Will  he  crouch  to  Mohammed's  control, 

In  suburbs,  pent  up  like  a  thief? 
And  drink  of  contempt,  and  reproachings,  the  bowl, 
Who  of  chivalry  once,  and  of  honor,  was  soul, 

Whose  nation  of  nations  was  chief? 


. 


(213) 

Shall  bis  oil  and  bis  wine  ne'er  be  reapt  ? 

Sball  bis  harp  hang  by  Babylon's  tide  — 
Whose  music  of  sweetness  for  ages  hath  slept, 
O'er  whose  strings  hath  no  finger  of  cheerfulness  swept, 

In  songs  of  debverance  and  pride  ? 

Shall  he  ne'er  at  the  festival's  sheen, 

The  new  moon,  or  Sabbath  attend  ? 
Where  Zion  in  beauty  and  glory  was  seen, 
When   shoutings  went  up  —  trumpets  calling  between  — 

While  praises  were  wont  to  ascend  ? 

Where  the  censer  gave  richest  perfume, 

Where  the  Holy  of  Holies  had  place, 
Where  the  almond  of  Aaron  was  laid  up  in  bloom, 
Where  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  had  resting  and  room, 

Where  Shechinah  gave  token  of  grace  ? 

Zion !  name  that  brings  freshly  the  sigh  ; 

Zion !  name  at  which  tears  freely  fall ; 
Where  the  mosque  of  the  prophet  peers  proudly  and  high, 
The  Muezzin  at  noon  gives  idolatrous  cry, 

Where  Allah  is  worshipped  of  all ! 

'T  is  the  Zion,  oh,  God  !  which  thy  arm 

Still  embraces,  for  her  thou  hast  set 
Most  safe  in  thy  love,  deeply  graved  on  thy  palm, 
Secure  from  defilement,  and  terror,  and  harm, 

Her  bulwarks  before  thee  are  yet. 

And  thy  oath  !  —  't  was  to  Abraham  given  ! 

Thy  servant,  devoted  to  thee  — 
As  the  sands  on  the  shore,  as  the  leaves  by  winds  driven, 
As  the  planets  that  spangle  the  Syrian  heaven, 

So  his  children  in  number  shall  be  ! 


(214) 

Like  kings  on  their  conquering  car, 

They  return  !  for  their  bondage  is  burst ;  — 
"  My  sons  shall  be  gathered,  my  daughters  from  far ; 
To  bear  them  where  shines  Jacob's  beautiful  Star, 
Lo,  Tarshish  with  ships  shall  be  first !  " 

I  see  them !  I  see  them  !  behold ! 

Every  stream,  sea  and  ocean  is  white, 
Where  their  canvass  points  home,  where  their  standard's 

broad  fold 
Waves  on  to  the  East,  as  it  waved  once  of  old, 

When  the  Ark  moved,  enveloped  in  light ! 

I  see  them !  how  wondrous  the  crowd  ! 

From  Ganges,  from  Humber,  from  Nile,  — 
As  doves  to  their  windows,  they  fly  as  a  cloud ; 
How  roll  their  hosannas  !  how  lordly  and  loud 

Horn  and  timbrel  give  answer  the  while  ! 

Be  lifted,  ye  gates  !  for  't  is  He 

Once  led  by  the  rabble  to  die, 
Once  spit  on,  and  thorn-crowned,  and  hung  on  a  tree, 
Now  worshipped,  anointed,  exalted  to  be 

A  Prince  and  a  Saviour  on  high. 

Who  is  He  that  of  glory  is  King  ? 

To  whom  shall  be  lifted  the  gates  ? 
Shout,  thousands  of  Israel !  ye  worshippers,  bring 
Oblations  !     Let  earth  with  her  jubilee  ring! 

The  crown  for  the  Nazarene  waits  ! 

Then,  Christian,  reproaches  and  stain 

No  longer  give  thou  to  the  Jew ; 
For,  gathered  in  gladness  to  Zion  again, 
He  will  own  that  Messiah,  appointed  to  reign, 

Has  come,  —  the  Great  Witness  and  True. 


(215) 


LOVE. 

"  Were  there  nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only  Love, 
Then  only  Love  were  cause  enough  for  praise." 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

True  it  is,  oh,  weary  toiler 

In  a  path  where  pitfalls  be, 
And  where  lies  in  wait  the  spoiler  — 

True  it  is,  for  thee  and  me, 
In  the  path  that  leads  above, 
Walketh  with  us  watchful  Love. 

True  it  is,  that  bid  to  tarry  — 

Christian  —  on  thy  couch  of  pain, 

Though  we  may  not  to  thee  carry 
Hope  of  health  and  ease  again  — 

This,  thy  trial-way  above, 

Smoothed  and  guarded  is  by  Love. 

True  it  is,  oh,  weeping  mother, 

At  the  coffin  of  thy  boy, 
Thou  hast  anguish  that  another 

Knoweth  not,  and  thou  hast  joy 
Which  the  unstricken  may  not  prove, 
For  the  blow  is  dealt  by  Love. 

True  it  is,  oh,  sinner,  broken 

As  thy  heart  is,  on  the  wheel 
Of  Remorse,  that  Mercy's  token 

Lifted  is  to  those  who  feel. 
See  it !  where  the  healing  Dove 
Flutters  o'er  the  Cross  in  Love. 


(216) 

True  it  is,  perplexed  and  troubled, 
Thou  on  life's  uncertain  tide ; 

All  thy  sorrows  more  than  doubled, 
By  those  dear  ones  at  thy  side ; 

That  these  stormy  waters  move 

Only  at  the  word  of  Love. 

True  it  is,  each  billow  's  bidden 

Only  thus  in  wrath  to  go, 
And  the  raging  deep  is  chidden 

In  its  fearful  overflow. 
Were  there  nothing  Praise  to  move 
But  such  Love,  there 's  cause  in  Love. 


THE  SONS  OF  GOD. 


"  Behold  what  manner  of  love  the  Father  hath  bestowed  upon  us,  that 
we  should  be  called  the  sons  of  God."  —  1  John,  iii.  1. 

"  So  astonishing  did  this  seem,  when  one  of  the  Malabrian  converts  was 
required  by  the  Danish  missionaries  thus  to  translate  this  passage,  that  he 
shrunk  from  it,  as  far  too  bold.  *  Let  me  rather  render  it,'  said  he,  *  They 
shall  be  permitted  to  kiss  his  feet.'  "  —  Notes  to  Cottage  Bible, 


TO   THE   ANGELS. 

And  who  are  they  that  wear  such  name, 
By  whom*  your  starry  courts  are  trod ; 

Above  yon  ministers  of  flame, 
And  known  as  Sons  of  God  ? 


©= 

I 


(217) 

Whose  forms  seem  like  to  men  below, 

Whose  anthems,  sweeter  than  the  rest, 
Speak  of  some  sad,  mysterious  woe, 

Deliverance  and  rest ;  — 
Who  touch  with  warmer  thrill  the  string 

Of  warbling  harps,  and  to  their  lyres 
Unwonted  love  and  gladness  bring, 

And  far  intenser  fires :  — 
Oh,  who  are  they,  whose  lofty  song 

To  hear,  your  hosts  delay  their  own,  — 
That  humblest  bow  of  all  your  throng, 

And  nearest  to  the  throne  ? 

THE    ANGELS'    REPLY. 

These  are  from  unknown  tongues  and  climes, 

And  this  their  song  of  sweet  degrees  ; 
Hark  !  through  wide  heaven,  as  one,  its  chimes 

Peal,  like  the  sound  of  seas. 
And  their  rich  music  truly  tells 

That  each,  whose  feet  with  joy  is  shod, 
Once  lost,  now  found,  for  ever  dwells, 

The  reconciled  with  God. 
From  deepest  depths  of  miry  sin, 

Pollution,  and  the  dreadful  curse, 
Raised,  and  adorned  without,  within, 

On  thrones  commanding  us  — 
They  sing  of  chastisement  and  grace ; 

And  we,  who  never  knew  the  rod, 
Gaze  not  on  the  Redeemer's  face, 

As  gaze  these  Sons  of  God  ! 


19 


(218) 


LET  ME  LIVE  TILL  I  AM  OLD. 

Let  me  live  till  I  am  old ! 

Death,  though  still  in  manhood's  prime, 
I  would  meet,  as  meets  the  bold, 

Yet  I  fain  would  "  'bide  my  time." 
What  are  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 

Scarcely  span  enough  to  kiss 
Tears  from  off  Life's  blessings  :  then 

Let  me  gather  all  Life's  bliss. 
'T  is  a  little  leaf,  at  best, 

"Which  for  ever  I  may  spell 

Of  Life's  doings,  ill  or  well,  — 
When  among  the  stars  I  rest, 
Measured  by  its  sands  of  gold, 

When  eternal  day  I  tell. 
Let  me  live  till  I  am  old ! 


No  !  Religion  quickly  cries  ; 

Life  hath  thorns  as  well  as  roses. 

Death  the  earlier  glimpse  discloses, 
Unto  him  that  early  dies, 
Of  the  peaceful  paradise, 
Where  sufficeth  thought  to  dwell  — 
Pausing  'mid  that  thunder  song  — 
On  the  path,  or  brief  or  long  — 

Trod  with  joy,  in  sorrow  trod, 

Meeting  pleasure  or  the  rod ; 
'T  is  the  same.     In  heaven  't  is  well, 

If  on  earth  we  walked  with  God. 


(219) 


THE  DEAD. 

Buried  once,  the  sleeping  dust, 
Let  not  changes,  let  not  lust 
Of  reward,  tempt  hirelings,  rude, 
To  disturb  its  solitude, 
In  its  coffin,  in  the  clay, 
Hidden  from  the  gaze  of  day,  — 
Where  upon  the  mouldering  mass 
Groweth  the  luxuriant  grass, 
Where  the  spotted  grave-cloth  cleaveth 
To  the  bosom  that  ne'er  heaveth ; 
Where  the  snail  his  slimy  trace 
Leaves  on  the  unshrinking  face  ; 
Where,  with  sad  corruption,  pride 
Lieth,  nestling,  side  by  side, 
Saying  to  it,  Hail,  my  mother ! 
To  the  worm,  My  sister !  brother  !  — 
Where  the  schemes  and  hopes  of  man 
Are  within  a  little  span  ; 
Where  forgot  are  love  and  hate ; 
Where  the  beggar  finds  his  mate 
Li  the  prince,  and  beauty  sleeps  — 
Where  the  sluggish  vapor  creeps 
Round  her  with  unwholesome  chill ; 
Where  the  weary  takes  his  fill 
Of  unbroken  dreamless  rest, 
With  the  clod  upon  his  breast ; 
Where  the  sons  of  Adam  lie 
Sleeping  —  till  the  melted  sky 


(220) 

Mingles  with  the  deep,  and  earth 
Yields  them  once  again  to  birth, 
Ready  —  past  Death's  night  away  — 
For  the  final  judgment  day. 
Till  then  —  undisturbed  be 
All  that  is  mortality. 
Till  then,  Avarice  !  spare  the  grave. 
Till  then,  look  not  on  the  slave 
Shrouded  here,  ye  curious  eyes  !  — 
"  Spare  his  dust  the  outrage,"  cries 
Decency ;  such  deed  of  night 
Grieves  the  heart  and  sickens  sight. 


THE   BURNING. 


A  lady  in  New  Hampshire,  who  has  been  made  to  drink  deeply  of  afflic- 
tion, was  lately  summoned,  with  her  children,  on  a  fair  Sabbath  morning, 
to  witness  the  burning  of  her  dwelling ;  and  in  that  calamity  to  behold  all 
that  was  left  of  her  little  possessions,  swept  away.  The  neighbors,  deeply 
sympathizing  with  her,  stood,  and  gazed  on  the  ruins,  unmindful  of  the  bell 
that  called  to  afternoon  worship.  She,  as  usual,  attended  church,  and  by 
her  calm  demeanor  and  absorbed  spirit,  showed  that  the  sanctuary  is  the 
place  where  sorrow  may  find  its  healing,  as  well  as  where  joy  may  express 
its  gratitude. 


I  've  told  my  story ;  need  my  verse 
On  such  instructive  grief  to  dwell  ? 

Or  to  the  heart,  in  lines,  rehearse 
What  every  heart  might  love  to  tell  ? 


(  221  ) 

In  my  mind's  eye,  I  see  her  stand,  — 
Her  soul  subdued,  yet  all  unbroke,  — 

Receiving  from  her  Father's  hand  — 
Herself  a  child  —  a  Father's  stroke. 


By  stern  affliction,  years  before, 

Led  gently  down  the  humble  vale, 
Where  pilgrims  drink  of  Heaven,  the  more 

That  earthly  streams  of  comfort  fail. 
Her  mansion,  wrapped  in  cruel  flame, 

That  leaps  and  darts  in  fiery  glee ; 
A  fierce  devourer  none  can  tame, 

The  mother's  eye  is  bid  to  see. 

The  mother  —  on  whose  slender  arms, 

Pale,  drooping  flowers,  her  daughters  lean ; 
To  shield  from  life's  unnumbered  harms, 

To  guide  through  wastes,  as  yet  unseen  — 
Beholds  depart  what  Mercy  spared ; 

Sees  hopes,  that  lingered,  turn  to  dust ; 
And  yet,  for  woe  by  woes  prepared, 

The  storm  but  drives  her  to  her  Trust. 

The  neighbors  strive ;  yet  all  in  vain 

Their  feeble  strife  with  giant  Fire  ; 
The  servant  freed  will  despot  reign, 

And  show  how  grovelings  may  aspire. 
They  gaze,  nor  heed  the  bell  that  calls, 

Entreating,  to  the  house  of  prayer ;  — 
She  hears,  and  on  her  spirit  falls, 

Like  balm,  the  invitation  there. 

19* 


(222) 

In  my  mind's  eye,  I  see  her  kneel 

Where  hope  is  strengthened  from  above ; 
Those  quiet  tears  the  peace  reveal 

That  flows  when  trial  comes  in  love. 
And  she  is  taught  in  Sorrow's  school, 

On  Heaven,  alone,  her  feet  to  stay ; 
And  takes,  for  her's,  the  Psalmist's  rule  — 

In  grief  or  gladness  still  to  pray. 


MANY  WAYS. 


Many  ways,  Jehovah !  Thou 
Hast  to  make  the  sinner  bow ; 
Many  gracious  ways  to  bring 
Home  the  lost  and  wandering  — 
Travelers  in  forbidden  roads, 
Whom  a  guilty  conscience  goads ; 
And  the  thoughtless,  who  is  free 
From  its  stingings,  Lord  to  thee 
Thou  dost  win  in  many  ways, 
And  to  Thee  be  all  the  praise  ! 
Some  thou  callest  in  a  tone 
Musical  as  Mercy's  own. 
Sweet  the  harmonies  that  tell 
Of  forgiveness,  then ;  —  't  is  well 
When  they  listen  to  the  Bride, 
And  renounce,  forever,  Pride ! 
Some  thou  callest  by  the  loud 
Thunderings  of  thy  judgment  cloud  ; 


©= 


(223) 

When  the  midnight's  angry  peal 
Doth  to  quickened  thought  reveal 
All  of  vileness,  dared  and  done, 
All  of  utter  ruin  won ; 
When  transgressors,  that  were  wooing 
Pleasure  to  the  soul's  undoing, 
Pause,  bewildered  —  look  within, 
Look  to  Christ,  and  leave  their  sin. 
By  the  path  of  sorrow,  thou 
Leadest  stricken  parents  now  ; 
She  who  bendeth  silently 
O'er  the  child  that  soon  must  die, 
Thou  dost  call  in  every  groan 
Of  that  sufferer,  to  her  own 
Keener  anguish  answering,  — 
Her  through  trial  thou  dost  bring, 
That  she  may  of  mercy  sing, 
And  from  nightshade  of  the  tomb 
Turn  to  flowers  of  living  bloom. 
Some  by  sickness  thou  dost  call,  — 
Some,  above  a  buried  friend, 
Ponder  on  their  latter  end. 
Others,  shuddering  at  the  pall, 
Winding  sheet,  and  sepulchre, 
Turn  to  thee.     Amid  the  stir 
Of  the  busy  multitude, 
Some  —  and  some  in  solitude ; 
Some,  in  visions  of  the  night ; 
Some,  when  basking  in  the  bright 
Beamings  of  prosperity; 
Some  in  abject  poverty. 
Some  —  filled  up  existence'  page  — 
Thou  dost  call  in  wintry  age ; 


(224) 

Some  —  most  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers  • 

Offer  thee  their  vernal  hours. 

Some,  in  their  ancestral  halls, 

Some,  as  beggared  prodigals ; 

Some,  the  anxious  father's  care, 

Poured  out  in  the  midnight  prayer ; 

Some,  a  mother's  quiet  tear 

To  the  kingdom  bringeth  near ; 

Plaintive  hymn  dissolves  that  soul, 

This,  the  noble  organ's  roll ; 

Some,  a  single  caution  wins ; 

This  one  stops,  in  view  of  sins 

Raging  round  him  like  a  flood, 

And  rebuked,  alarmed,  to  God 

Flies  he  in  the  troublous  hour, 

Only  safe  with  Sovereign  Power ; 

Some,  within  their  cedar  rooms, 

Others,  wrapt  in  dungeon  glooms ; 

Some,  whose  lot  with  thrones  is  cast, 

Some,  upon  the  giddy  mast ; 

Some,  before  the  public  gaze, 

Some,  in  secret.     Many  ways 

Of  compassion,  Lord !  hast  thou  ! 

Teaching  rebel  men  to  bow ; 

Many  ways  to  bring  to  thee 

Wilful  heart  and  stubborn  knee ; 

Many  ways  to  lead  above  :  — 

Oh,  for  ways  to  praise  thy  love ! 


(225) 


MADAGASCAR. 

"  No  man  of  God  shall  tread  this  isle," 

The  queen  of  Madagascar  said ; 
"  Who  Christ  shall  teach  —  by  force  or  guile 
Shall  pay  the  forfeit  of  his  head. 
Our  gods,  that  give  us  weal  or  curse, 
Abused  or  praised,  will  do  for  us. 

"  Bring  forth  the  wretches  who  forsake 
The  altars  that  our  fathers  served ; 
Be  theirs  the  dungeon,  stripe  and  stake, 

Reward  of  treason,  well  deserved. 
Draw  out  the  sharp  and  shining  spear, 
With  vengeance  flushed,  —  impale  them  here." 

She  did  not  know  that  One,  who  sits 
Above,  doth  at  the  scoffers  laugh ; 

And  holds  in  scorn  their  feeble  wits, 
And  drives  their  hopes  away  as  chaff. 

Nor  knew  that  royal  David  cries 

To  kings  and  queens,  "  Be  wise,  be  wise." 

That  He,  on  heaven's  circle,  spurns 
What  princes  deem  their  fondest  joy ; 

And  overturns,  and  overturns 
Their  empires,  like  an  idle  toy. 

And  in  displeasure,  sore,  doth  vex 

The  wolves  that  dare  His  fold  perplex. 


(226) 

What  though  this  Madagascar  queen 
Pursues  the  conscript  men  of  God, 

And  with  her  sacrifice,  obscene  — 
To  horrid  demons  —  mix  their  blood  ; 

Though  kings  and  queens  His  message  shun, 

They  must  submit,  and  kiss  the  Son. 

Though  in  the  galaxy  that  flames 

Before  the  eye  of  angels,  she 
Joins  to  those  high  immortal  names 

The  lowly,  scorned,  Ra-sa-la-me,  * 
Who  had  for  martyr-fame  no  thirst  — 
Of  Madagascar's  martyrs  first ;  — 

We  know  the  light  of  Bethlehem's  Star 
Shall  reach  the  darkest  depths  of  guilt, 

Though  edicts  swarm  of  pope  and  czar, 
Though  blood  by  pagan  sword  be  spilt. 

For  has  not  God  declared  decree  — 

I  give,  my  Son,  the  earth  to  Thee  ? 

Then  fly,  ye  ships !  to  heathen  coasts, 
All  freighted  with  Salvation's  gem,  — 

And  bear  the  sacramental  hosts 

Where  blinded  nations  wait  for  them : 

The  world  by  grace  must  yet  be  won; 

By  man  the  labor  must  be  done. 

*  Ra-sa-la-me  spoke  so  boldly  in  defence  of  Christianity,  that  she  was 
fixed  upon  to  appease  the  wrath  of  the  queen.  She  was  most  severely 
whipped  for  several  days  successively,  before  she  was  put  to  death  —  a 
thing  never  heard  of  before  in  Madagascar.  She,  however,  continued 
steadfast  to  the  end,  and  met  death  with  such  calmness  and  tranquility, 
that  the  executioners  repeatedly  declared  that  "  there  was  some  charm  in 
the  religion  of  the  whites,  that  took  away  the  dread  of  death."  —  Mission- 
ary Herald  for  February,  1839. 


(227) 


LIVING  —  DEAD. 

"  He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone, 
And  all  are  dead  beside ; 
For  other  source  than  God  is  none, 
Whence  life  can  be  supplied." 

Thus  Cowper  sung,  and  Cowper  knew  — 
And  thousand?  sing  like  this  ; 

For  still  experience  shows  how  true 
The  Christian's  source  of  bliss. 

Such,  to  a  plant  is  likened  well, 
That  blooms  where  waters  are ; 

Whose  early  buds  of  promise  swell, 
Whose  leaf  is  green  and  fair ; 

That  thrives  and  yields  perpetual  fruit, 
Sweet,  fresh,  and  good  to  see  ; 

Whose  sap  mounts  upward  from  the  root, 
And  spreads  through  all  the  tree. 

Above  its  sisterhood,  it  towers 

In  beauty  —  not  in  pride  ; 
And  fragrance  from  its  world  of  flowers 

It  scatters  far  and  wide. 

The  Husbandman  comes  gladly  down, 

Its  loveliness  to  view  ; 
Its  increase  is  His  purchased  crown  ;  — 

His  was  the  labor  too. 


(  228) 

But  those  that  turn  their  feet  aside 

From  Wisdom's  only  way, 
And,  leaving  God,  confer  with  Pride, 

And  selfish  Will  obey  — 

Are  dead ;  no  more  the  branch  is  green  • 

The  buds  no  longer  swell ; 
The  dry  and  withered  leaf  is  seen 

On  winds  that  waft  to  hell. 

Stop  !  thou  who  dost  my  lines  peruse  ; 

Monition  take  from  me, 
Not  verse,  a  moment  to  amuse, 

A  message  is  to  thee. 

Hast  thou  a  deep,  abiding  root, 

0,  goodly  tree,  and  tall !  — 
Or  art  thou  blasted,  wanting  fruit, 

And  nodding  to  thy  fall  ? 


OH  WHY  SHOULD  THIS  POOR  WORLD  OF  OURS. 

Oh,  why  should  this  poor  world  of  ours 
Bewilder  with  its  foolish  schemes  — 

Delight  with  its  decaying  flowers, 

And  cheat  me  with  its  empty  dreams  ? 

Have  I  one  object,  and  but  one, 

That  solely  should  the  mind  engross  ? 

A  war  to  wage  —  a  race  to  run  — 
The  gold  to  sever  from  the  dross  — 


(229  ) 

And,  in  this  narrow  inch  of  time, 
The  work  of  countless  years  to  do  ? 

'Mid  these  low  thoughts,  a  theme  sublime 
To  ponder,  ever  vast  and  new  ?  — 

And  but  these  fleeting  days   of  strife 

To  gaze  in  retrospect  upon, 
Through  cycles  of  an  Endless  Life, 

While  all  its  ages  journey  on  ? 

Oh,  wondrous  God  !  shall  I  be  mad 
In  the  base  struggle,  thus,  for  gain, 

Or  honor,  pleasure,  good  and  bad, 
To  urge  it  with  desire,  insane  ? 

Or  shall  I  change,  as  years  increase, 

The  ill  that 's  past,  for  worse  to  come  — 

Pursue  with  tears  the  phantom,  peace, 
And  overtake  of  woe  the  sum  ? 

Nor  pause  upon  my  march,  one  hour, 
My  march,  that  with  the  grave  begins  — 

And  strive  to  snap,  with  frenzied  power, 
The  chain  that  binds  me  to  my  sins  ?  — 

Upon  the  topmast  sleeping  yet, 

Whence  down  to  depths  I  may  be  cast, 

Shall  I  dream  on,  and  still  forget 

The  port  which  I  must  make  at  last  ?  — 

Nor  listen  to  the  voice  that  weeps 
Above  the  storm,  in  hopeless  pain ; 

Nor  heed  the  wretches  o'er  whom  sweeps 
The  dark  and  melancholy  main  ? 


20 


(230) 

I  '11  pause  —  my  weary  soul !  one  hour ; 

For  thee  a  new  career  begins ; 
I  '11  strive  to  snap,  with  frenzied  power, 

The  chain  that  binds  me  to  my  sins. 

This  hour  !  this  hour !     Oh,  no  ;  oh,  no ; 

This  hour  eternity  may  be : 
This  moment,  blessed  Lord,  I  go, 

From  sin  and  sin's  despair,  to  Thee. 


AN  EARLY  DEATH. 

"Death 

The  portal,  opening  into  Paradise  ; 

Where  grace,  that  in  the  bud  was  here  below, 

Into  thejlower  of  glory  straight  shall  blow." 

Francis  Taylor,  1658. 

We  may  to  our  companion  go, 
And  strive  to  lessen  anguish  thus, 

While  softened  sorrows  freely  flow  — 
But  he  will  ne'er  return  to  us. 

We  may,  recalling  all  the  charms 
And  solid  worth  that  made  him  dear, 

Fold  round  his  form  affection's  arms, 
And  seem  to  hold  the  spirit  here. 

But  no  —  that  spirit  is  away ; 

We  only  clasp  insensate  dust ;  — 
That  soars  in  uncreated  day, 

Tlris  waits  the  rising  of  the  just. 


(231) 

Here,  now,  at  dull  corruption's  claim, 
How  slumbers  this  without  a  care ; 
"  On  wheels  of  light,  on  wings  of  flame," 
How  that,  for  aye,  expatiates  there  / 

And  can  it  be,  the  cheek  of  bloom, 

That  spake  of  bliss,  and  days,  and  health, 

Is  pillowed  in  the  silent  tomb, 

To  glut  the  worm's  insatiate  wealth  ? 

And  can  it  be,  the  eye  of  light 

That  flashed  out  boyhood's  hope,  is  dim  ? 
And  shades  of  everlasting  night 

Have  lowered,  and  settled  down  on  him  ? 

And  can  it  be,  the  dulcet  voice, 

That  captive  held  Refinement's  throng, 

And  wakened  tears,  and  bade  rejoice,  — 
Reveals  no  more  the  soul  of  song  ? 

We  fondly  ask,  if  all  that  gave 

To  parents,  friends,  associates  —  joy, 

Can  sink  to  an  untimely  grave  ? 
Can  such,  Decay,  indeed,  destroy  ? 

We  ask,  dear  youth  !  and  from  the  sod 
Which  covers  all  that  late  was  fair, 

Turn  to  the  dwelling-place  of  God, 

Thy  home  —  and  find  an  answer  there. 


(232) 


MAN  IS  WRONG. 


Man  is  wrong  in  his  pursuits,  — 
Sowing  wrong,  unholy  fruits 
Reapeth  he.     In  desiring 
He  is  wrong.     In  aspiring, 
Yea,  in  groveling,  he  is  wrong ; 
Weak  in  good,  in  evil  strong. 
Wrong,  the  moment  he  beginneth 
Running  in  the  race  of  life. 
At  each  step  he  only  sinneth ; 
And  his  goal  is  only  strife. 
Wrong  in  childhood  —  how  perverse, 
Obstinate,  and  giddy  he ! 
Wrong  in  youth  —  a  frequent  curse, 
Parent !  is  thy  boy  to  thee : 
Wrong  in  manhood  ;  just  the  course 
Wisdom  warneth  from,  he  takes ; 
Wrong  in  age  —  he  's  folly's  source, 
Whence  the  wrecking  torrent  breaks. 
Wrong  in  hopes,  and  wrong  in  fears, 
Wrong  in  smiles,  and  wrong  in  tears, 
Wrong  in  object,  wrong  in  plan, 
Wrong  in  action  —  such  is  man ! 
Wrong  in  life,  his  parting  breath 
Ebbs  out  as  an  idle  song : 
Wrong  is  he  in  awful  death  — 
Living,  dying,  only  wrong. 
"  Cynic  ! "  —  No,  a  truthful  sketch 
Gives  my  pencil  of  thy  face ; 
Here,  thou  seest  what  a  wretch 
Is  God's  image,  wanting  grace. 


(233) 


BAPTISM  AT   THE   COFFIN'S   HEAD. 

"  Agreeably  to  her  request,  her  little  babe  was  baptized  at  the  head 
of  its  mother's  coffin." 

Lieth  here  beneath  her  shroud, 
Like  a  star  beneath  a  cloud, 
She,  of  whom  our  love  was  proud. 

Common  mourners  are  not  here ; 
Sorrow,  bending  o'er  this  bier, 
Drops  no  inexpressive  tear. 

Kind,  consistent,  earnest  one ; 
Active  —  all  her  labor  done  ; 
Ripe  for  summons  to  the  Son. 

Meek  in  her  allotted  place ; 
Panting  for  and  finding  grace; 
Winner  in  the  Christian  race. 

Giving  life,  she  yielded  life ; 

Sharp  the  struggle,  sore  the  strife,  — 

Quick  and  keen  the  severing  knife. 

In  the  matron's  modest  bloom, 
Just  a  mother  —  to  the  tomb 
Summoned  by  relentless  Doom. 

Just  allowed  earth's  purest  bliss, 
Just  allowed  her  bud  to  kiss, 
Ere  she  perished  —  anguish,  this  ! 

20* 


(234) 

"  Perished  ?"  —  No  !  —  from  this  terrene 
Borne  by  angels,  she  is  seen ; 
God  beholds  the  evergreen  ! 

Stay  awhile  the  funeral  stave  ! 
Stay,  ere  the  insatiate  grave 
Takes  the  lovely  dust  it  gave. 


Stay  !  —  for  so  she  bade  us  — 
We  perform  her  dying  will, 
Ere  the  waiting  grave  ye  fill ! 


till 


Bring  the  precious,  fatal  gift ! 
Heart!  thy  inner  purpose  sift, 
TThile  the  fervent  prayer  we  lift. 

Meet  it  is,  in  truthful  prayer, 
Thus  to  God  our  grief  and  care 
To  commit  and  leave  them  there. 

Meet  it  is,  when  mothers  go, 
Thus  the  orphan  to  bestow 
On  His  heart  who  loves  it  so ! 

Bring  it  to  the  Coffin's  Head ! 
Kneel,  while  solemn  word  is  said, 
In  the  presence  of  the  dead ! 


Though  her  little  babe  is  nigh, 
From  that  bosom,  where  't  would  lie, 
Comes  not  the  maternal  si^h. 


(  235  ) 

Beckon  not  the  sheltering  arms, 
To  protect  it  from  alarms ; 
Speaketh  not  the  voice  that  calms. 

Ah  !  the  stream  of  life  is  dried, 
"Which  those  tiny  lips  supplied ; 
Ah  !  a  mother's  breast  denied  ! 

Peaceful  doth  that  mother  lie  — 
Closed  affection's  ear  and  eye ; 
Heedless  of  her  baby's  cry. 

Water  —  of  blest  purity 
Emblem  —  do  we  pour  on  thee ; 
Little  one !  regenerate  be  — 

Only  by  the  crimson  flood 
Of  the  Spotless,  in  the  blood 
Of  the  very  Son  of  God  ! 

Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost ! 
Take  the  helpless  —  take  the  lost, 
Purchased,  once,  at  Calvary's  cost. 

Onward !  —  we  have  holy  joy 
Breaking  on  our  sad  employ ; 
Death!  thou  canst  not  this  destroy. 


(236) 


OUT  OF  EGYPT  HAVE  I  CALLED  MY  SON. 

Come  out  of  Egypt,  oh,  mine  undefiled, 
Dove  of  the  Lord  ;  innocuous,  wondrous  Child ! 
Thy  foes  are  dead,  and  sleeps  the  sword  that  swept 
The  home  of  Eama,  when  their  Rachel  wept. 

Come  out  of  Egypt  —  to  that  land  of  death 
The  shut-up  heavens  reveal,  not  now,  life's  breath ; 
To  Zion  shall  the  Light  of  Life  return ; 
O'er  Palestine  the  Gospel  Star  shall  burn. 

Come  out  of  Egypt ;  not  "  in  haste,"  "  by  night, 
As  when  fear  waited  on  Messiah's  flight ; 
In  peace  return  to  David's  royal  town, 
Whose  throne  awaits  thee  not,  nor  lineal  crown. 

Come  out  of  Egypt ;  yet,  as  sinks  the  sun, 
To  rise  again  when  night's  due  course  is  run, 
So  thou,  from  Mizraim,  shalt  withdraw  thy  ray, 
To  flood  her  with  thy  beams  another  day. 

Come  out  of  Egypt ;  yet,  to  trials  come ;  — 
To  suffering,  lack  of  ease,  of  friends,  of  home; 
Yes,  griefs  by  day,  at  night,  with  tears  to  lie ; 
Come,  thou,  to  be  betrayed,  to  groan  and  die. 

Come  out  of  Egypt,  from  the  grave  to  rise, 
And,  for  its  slain,  to  ope  the  eternal  skies ; 
To  plant  Religion's  Rose  in  every  wild, 
To  bless  a  world ;  —  oh,  come,  Incarnate  Child ! 


(  237) 


SWEET  OUT  OF  BITTER. 

u  We  know  not  the  depth  of  the  wisdom  of  thee,  our  Prince.  Who  could 
have  thought,  that  had  been  ruled  by  his  reason,  that  so  much  sweet  as  we 
do  now  enjoy  should  have  come  out  of  those  bitter  trials  wherewith  we 
were  tried  at  the  first  ?  "  —  The  Holy  War. 

Sweet  out  of  bitter,  God  designed 

For  weary,  wandering  man  ; 
And  only  he  who  is  resigned 

To  God,  fulfils  the  plan. 

And  he  may  see,  that  hath  an  eye, 

Those  purposes  above, 
"Written  on  ocean,  earth,  and  sky  — 

Wrought  in  the  web  of  love. 

Complex,  indeed,  the  wondrous  threads 

That  form  the  warp  and  woof; 
Yet  light  the  Almighty  Toiler  sheds 

On  work,  for  our  behoof. 

He  speaks  to  us  —  a  veil  between  — 

In  language  all  unknown, 
Till  Faith  instructs  —  and  then  'tis  seen 

As  lucid  as  his  throne. 

Yea,  did  we  not  on  trial  look 

With  unbelieving  eyes, 
'T  would  be  to  us  a  gracious  book, 

Perused  with  glad  surprise. 


(238) 

If  we,  unyielding,  do  not  Lear 

The  Appointer's  gentle  rod ; 
With  stripes,  increasingly  severe, 

May  come  a  frowning  God. 

His  wisdom  is  a  mighty  sea ; 

And  we  may  not  explore 
The  depths  of  his  Infinity,  — 

That  flood  without  a  shore. 

These  griefs,  like  sloughs,  that  mar  our  way, 

And  seem  our  course  to  blight, 
Seen  thus,  are  green  spots,  where  we  may 

Lie  down,  and  take  delight. 

When  sounding  our  high  harps,  the  chord 

That  best  will  quicken  heaven, 
Will  be  the  anthem  to  our  Lord, 

For  all  earth's  trials  given. 

And  counting  there  the  mercy-gems, 

Set  here  with  skill  divine  — 
While  others  fade,  as  diadems 

How  will  these  sorrows  shine  ! 

Come,  partner  !  we  have  wept  full  long ; 

Full  long  have  lain  opprest ; 
Rise  !  —  for  the  past  give  God  a  song, 

And  trust  Him  for  the  rest. 


The  cloud  has  lowered,  the  storm  has  rung 

Its  wild  blast  to  the  heart ; 
But  sunbeams  on  that  cloud  are  flung  — 

The  storm  will  soon  depart. 


(239  ) 

These  bitter  tears,  if  seen  aright 
The  Source  which  bids  them  flow, 

Will  change  to  those  fair  drops  of  light 
That  make  the  rainbow's  show. 

All  rebel  murmurings  will  die, 

And  we,  rebuked,  and  still, 
Like  vanquished  storms,  will  love  to  lie 

Beneath  our  Father's  will. 


SLEEP. 
"  Sleep  is  awful."  —  Byron. 

To  him  at  strife  with  conscience,  sleep 

Must  be  a  thing  of  dread ; 
What  images  of  horror  leap 

Like  fiends  about  his  bed ! 
He  tosses  on  the  eider-down,  — 

The  finely  textured  sheet 
That  wraps  his  body,  fails  to  give 

The  rest  to  nature  sweet. 

Yet  is  sleep  "  awful  ?  "  —  Ask  the  hind 

That  plods  among  the  corn, 
How  seemeth  slumber  unto  him, 

Who  toils  from  rosy  morn 
Till  welcome  evening  shades  the  hills  — 

He  laughs  at  such  a  word ; 
What  is  there  awful  to  his  breast 

By  no  ill  musings  stirred  ? 

6 —         — — =6 


(240) 

In  visions  of  the  night,  when  earth, 

So  late  in  arms,  is  dumb, 
And  all  is  hushed,  save  troubled  thoughts 

That  like  dark  phantoms  come,  — 
How  sadly  rise,  in  long  array, 

The  deeds  men  deemed  were  fled ! 
How  busy  cruel  Memory  then, 

With  things  long  fancied  dead ! 

Then  sleep  is  awful  —  wonder  not 

That  he  who  sin  did  choose, 
Still  found  all  things  designed  for  good, 

To  yield  him  good,  refuse. 
Or  that,  in  his  soul's  agony, 

With  every  mercy  given 
He  battled,  who  in  madness  waged 

Unhappy  war  with  Heaven.  * 

To  such,  each  gift  of  love,  of  life, 

Each  than  the  other  worse  — 
Can  only  be,  in  its  abuse, 

A  constant,  bitter  curse. 
For  what  to  virtue  blessings  are, 

Most  sweet,  and  safe  and  kind,  — 
Are  evils,  terrible  to  him 

Of  sin-distempered  mind. 


*  See  Lord  Byron's  verses  on  completing  his  thirty-sixth  year: 

"The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle,"  <fcc. 


=© 


(241) 


A  WEARY  WORLD. 

"  A  weary  world,"  forever  cry 

The  stricken,  troubled,  and  the  sad ; 
And  openly,  alike  the  bad, 
Alike  the  good,  in  secret  sigh ; 

And  "  weary,  weary  world,"  is  still 
The  burden  of  their  song  of  ill. 

Aforetime,  I  have  strung  some  lays 

In  idleness,  to  theme  like  this ; 

And  shut  my  wilful  eyes  on  bliss, 
That  round  me  lay  in  noontide  blaze ; 

And  chose  the  darkness  that,  in  stour, 

Fancy  beheld  around  me  lower. 

It  pleased  me  then,  to  say  or  sing, 
"  This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show ; " 
And  all  its  joys,  as  well  as  woe, 

Are  sombre  as  the  raven's  wing, 
And  flat  as  dreams  of  folly  past, 
That  charm  awhile,  and  cheat  at  last. 

I  've  wiser  grown  ;  —  and  this  fair  world 
Seems  fraught  with  something  of  the  grace, 
That  God  inscribed  upon  its  face, 

When  he  the  lovely  planet  hurled 

Away,  —  as  Time  began  his  years,  — 
To  join  the  dances  of  the  spheres. 

21 


(242) 

"  My  heart  leaps  up,"  when  I  am  fanned 
By  morning's  fragrance-laden  air ; 
How  blessed  is  the  night !  how  fair 
The  landscape  where  I  spy  His  hand ! 
The  hill  and  vale  have  charms  for  me ; 
The  river,  and  the  broad  blue  sea. 


Yes !  and  its  fields,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 
Its  sun,  and  stars,  and  glorious  frame, 
Now  tell  me  of  the  Maker's  Name. 

I  read  it  in  the  flying  hours, 
I  feel  it  in  the  summer's  glow ; 
'T  is  spangled  on  the  winter's  snow. 

His  love  I  welcome  in  the  joy 

Of  friendship,  and  I  need  not  roam 
For  sweeter  proof;  my  humble  home  — 

Where  pleasures  dwell,  that  never  cloy, 
Where  peace  has  dove-like  wing  unfurled - 
Tells  me  't  is  not  a  "  weary  "  world. 

"  Sin  makes  it  weary ; "  true,  yet  here 
Thy  argument  doth  blindly  halt ; 
'T  is  not  the  world,  but  man  's  in  fault ; 
And  were  to  such  the  heavens  brought  near, 
And  could  sin  there  one  moment  dwell, 
Then  heaven  would  be  a  "  weary"  hell. 

And  spirit !  can  that  weary  be, 

Disgusting,  vexing,  on  whose  front 
(Too  deeply  writ  for  ruin's  brunt, 

Or  change,)  stands  thy  eternity  ? 

This,  on  which  spleen  in  judgment  sat, 
Thy  one  probation-place  for  that  I 


@= 


(  *«  ) 

God  never  wrought  with  ill  intent, 
Nor  vainly  ;  and  this  glorious  world, 
O'er  which  his  starry  skies  are  curled, 

O'er  which  his  bow  of  love  is  bent  — 
Scene  of  his  Son's  accomplished  plan  — 
Is  not  a  "  weary  "  world  for  man. 

I  '11  love  it,  and  with  holy  love  ; 
For  its  high  mysteries  will  employ 
Thought,  language,  love,  in  worlds  of  joy. 

There  —  and  such  be  my  bliss  above !  — 
Earth  has  sweet  portion  in  the  soul, 
And  shall  have,  as  those  ages  roll. 


A  PORTRAIT. 

Written  "while  its  original,  Rev.  James  Patterson,  of  Philadelphia,  was 
in  the  midst  of  his  days  and  usefulness,  and  six  weeks  prior  to  his  sudden 
and  lamented  death. 

He  ministers  where  busy  men 

Do  cluster  in  the  mart  of  Penn. 

Its  northern  suburbs  well  have  known 

The  light  that  twenty  years  hath  shone 

In  many  an  alley,  lane  and  street 

Of  those  thronged  Liberties,  where  meet 
The  careless,  godless  and  profane. 

In  many  a  house  his  ready  feet 
Have  visited,  a  soul  to  gain, 
Whom  he  hath  warned,  and  not  in  vain. 


(244) 

Wouldst  note  him  ?     Seek  yon  dome  of  prayer, 

His  wonted  place  —  behold  him  there. 
He  stands,  with  form  that  toil  hath  bowed, 
In  meekness  to  delight  that  crowd. 

His  furrowed  cheek  and  thin  grey  hair 
Would  tell  of  age,  did  not  that  eye 
Of  kindling  spark,  the  thought  deny  ;  — 
Would  tell  of  weakness,  did  not  lips 

Of  burning  eloquence,  and  heart 
That  into  Heaven's  mystery  dips, 

Instruction,  awe  and  peace  impart. 

With  Saxon  strength  of  language,  he 

Pours  thoughts  that  rise  in  giant  strength ; 
With  quaint,  appropriate  imagery, 
Convincing  in  simplicity, 

He  shows  his  subject's  breadth  and  length. 
The  weapon  doth  he  strongly  draw, 
Bright,  keen  and  tempered,  of  the  law ; 
And  while  fools  cavil,  that  its  edge 

Wears  not  a  nice  and  useless  shine, 
It  severs  like  a  mighty  wedge 

The  gnarled  tough  heart  with  power  divine. 

Dost  ask  for  fruit  ?     'T  is  ample  —  some 

Is  gathered  up  to  bless  him  here ; 
And  from  earth's  confines  men  shall  come  — 
His  crown,  when  lost  are  star  and  sphere. 
"  That  Day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  Day 
When  heaven  and  earth  will  pass  away  "  — 
When  swells  on  high  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Let  me  be  found  where  he  is  found  ! 
When  sinks  beneath  my  foot  the  land, 
Let  me  but  stand  where  he  doth  stand ! 


=@ 


(245) 

Who  shall  be  greatest  deemed  of  all 

That  sit  in  white  on  thrones  above? 
Not  he  for  gifts  esteemed,  like  Paul, 

But  he  who  toiled,  like  Paul,  in  love. 
Earth's  great  ones,  while  abashed  they  wear 

In  heaven,  a  rayless  diadem, 
Shall  see  such,  high  in  glory  there, 

Spangled  and  starred  with  many  a  gem. 


THE   SACRAMENT   OF   BAPTISM. 


Behold  where  the  exalted  Son 

To  infants  offers  rest ; 
Come,  parent,  bring  thy  little  one, 

And  lay  it  on  His  breast. 

He  round  its  wakeful  hours,  will  fling 
The  Arm  that  safely  keeps ; 

And,  better  than  an  angel's  wing, 
Will  fold  it  when  it  sleeps. 

He  '11  flush  its  cheeks  with  rosy  health ; 

From  sickness  guard,  and  pain ; 
Or,  if  He  comes  to  ask  thy  wealth 

Of  blessing  back  again, 

Will  lead  it  from  our  frosts,  to  where 
Bright  summer  never  dies ; 

And,  as  their  offspring  eagles  bear, 
Will  bear  it  to  the  skies. 


21* 


(246) 

MOTHER. 

0,  holy  man,  what  thou  dost  teach 

Disquieteth  my  heart ; 
Can  stain  my  spotless  infant  reach  ? 

Hath  folly  in  it  part  ? 

My  bird,  just  fledged  to  cheerful  life, 
And  chirping  from  its  nest, 

What  can  it  know  of  sorrow's  strife  ? 
What  needeth  it  of  rest  ? 

Its  eye  is  clear,  its  pulse  is  free, 

Life  leaps  in  every  vein ; 
Why  namest  thou  my  joy  to  me, 

In  company  with  pain  ? 

The  weary,  heavy-laden  one, 
By  secret  sin  oppressed  — 

The  youth,  to  open  follies  won, 
The  aged,  sigh  for  rest ;  — 

But  this,  my  bud  of  morning's  hour, 
Is  new  to  this  world's  sky ; 

God  will  not  let  such  tender  flower 
By  passion's  tempests  die. 

PASTOR. 

Yet  bring  it,  parent !  for  thy  child, 

Mortality's  true  heir, 
Is  cast  out  in  a  thorny  wild 

Of  passion,  grief,  and  care. 

That  eye  disease  may  dim ;  that  form  - 
God's  sweet  and  graceful  flower  — 

May  droop  before  the  cruel  storm, 
And  perish  in  an  hour. 


(247) 

The  little  babe  may  "  weary  "  be ; 

The  buoyant  child  of  mirth 
Thou  mayest  a  "  burdened  pilgrim  "  see, 

Pressed  heavily  to  earth. 

The  germ  of  folly  hid  within 

May  sprout  in  baleful  bloom ; 
The  unregarded  spark  of  sin 

May  flesh  and  soul  consume. 

Of  joumeyers  to  a  world  above, 

Whate'er  their  fortunes  be, 
The  youngest  need  a  Saviour's  love  — 

The  love  that  helpeth  thee. 

That  love  sufficeth  for  the  old ; 

'T  is  treasure  for  the  man  ; 
Life  for  the  children  of  the  fold, 

And  infant  of  a  span. 

Nor  think  thy  dreams,  prospective,  give 
Firm  ground  for  hope  to  build ; 

The  man  lives  not  —  he  may  not  live, 
Whose  every  hope 's  fulfilled. 

Spring's  blossoms,  studding  thick  the  bough, 

Oft  fail  of  autumn's  fruit ; 
God  doth  with  leaves  the  tree  endow,  — 

A  worm  is  at  the  root. 

'T  is  wise  for  us,  for  them  't  is  wise, 

Ere  falls  the  teaching  rod  — 
To  point  their  wishes  to  the  skies, 

Their  purposes  to  God. 


(248) 

For,  when  he  pillared  earth  on  air, 

And  did  the  waters  bind, 
Children  and  parents  blended  were 

With  pity  in  his  Mind. 

Of  blessings  which  a  Father  gives, 
Wouldst  thou  thy  child  defraud? 

The  Abrahamic  Covenant  lives  — 
Its  seal :  thus  saith  the  Lord  ! 

?T  is  kind  —  while  o'er  the  waves  of  sin 
All  safely  rides  our  bark  — 

To  take  our  struggling  children  in 
With  us  to  Mercy's  Ark. 

Now,  then,  in  this,  its  feeble  hour, 

To  quiet  thine  alarms, 
Commit  thy  infant  to  His  power, 

And  to  a  Saviour's  arms. 

And  for  it  ask  Almighty  care, 

And  ask  securing  grace  ; 
His  heart  hath  audience  for  thy  prayer, 

And  for  thy  child  a  place. 


0,  while  these  sparkling  water-drops 
Suffuse  my  infant's  brow, 

Its  spirit  wash  from  every  stain, 
And  bless  it,  Saviour !  Thou ! 


6= 


(249) 


THEY  THAT   SOW  IN  TEARS   SHALL  REAP  IN  JOY. 

There  is  an  hour  of  hallowed  peace 

For  those  with  cares  distressed, 
When  sighs  and  groans  and  tears  shall  cease, 

And  all  be  hushed  to  rest ;  — 
'T  is  then  the  soul  is  freed  from  fears, 

And  doubts  that  here  annoy  — 
And  they  who  oft  have  sown  in  tears, 

Shall  reap  again  with  joy. 

There  is  a  home  of  sweet  repose, 

Where  storms  assail  no  more ; 
The  stream  of  endless  pleasure  flows 

Along  that  heavenly  shore. 
There  smiling  peace  writh  love  appears, 

And  bliss  without  alloy ; 
There  they  who  once  have  sown  in  tears 

Now  reap  eternal  joy. 

When  the  revealing  hour  is  near 

That  sunders  every  tomb, 
And  on  our  way  of  doubt  and  fear 

We  pass  the  valley's  gloom  — 
0  Jesus,  calm  our  mortal  fears ; 

Let  praise  our  lips  employ  — 
So  we,  who  here  have  sown  in  tears, 

Shall  reap  in  Heaven  with  joy. 


(250) 

HYMN, 

Written  for  a  Sunday  School  Celebration  in  the  country. 

Gathered  by  the  hand  of  kindness, 

Where  Instruction  holdeth  rule, 
While  the  weeks  fulfilled  their  courses, 

We  have  met  in  Sunday  School. 
When  reigned  o'er  us  frowning  Winter,  — 

When  the  laughing  Spring  gave  flowers,  - 
We  have  met  in  golden  Autumn, 

We  have  met  in  Summer  showers. 

But,  to-day,  we  come  together, 

Where  on  Nature's  face  we  look ; 
Every  tree  to  us  a  letter, 

Every  field  and  grove  a  book. 
Here  we  take  from  leaves  our  lessons ; 

Task  the  insect  on  the  wing ; 
And  with  birds  and  rippling  waters, 

Join  our  voices  as  we  sing. 

Here,  in  cheerful  recreation, 

Which  to-morrow  wont  condemn  — 
We,  to-day,  improve  the  moments, 

Knowing  Wisdom  numbers  them. 
And,  around  these  woodlands  playing, 

Frisking,  buzzing,  like  the  bee, 
Each  will  think  that  God  is  saying, 

"  In  your  sports  Remember  Me  ! " 


(251) 

Thus,  along  life's  checkered  way-side, 

May  we  always  lessons  take, 
Which  the  Great  Instructor  scatters, 

For  the  youth  and  children's  sake. 
And,  while  yet  the  heart  is  lightest, 

May  for  Him  its  pulses  beat, 
So  shall  He,  whose  smile  is  brightest, 

Shine,  when  darkness  wraps  our  feet. 

Gathered  by  the  hand  of  kindness, 

Where  Instruction  holdeth  rule, 
We  shall  learn  not  long  together, 

We  must  leave  our  Sunday  School ! 
Yet,  while  time  and  youth  are  flying, 

May  we  so  improve  our  powers, 
As  to  say,  or  living,  dying, 

"  We  are  Christ's,  and  Christ  is  ours." 

Then,  should  floods  of  sorrow  gather, 

As  about  our  path  they  must,  — 
While  the  clouds  of  trial  thicken, 

And  the  muttering  thunders  burst,  — 
We,  of  sunshine  ever  dreaming, 

O'er  them  all  shall  see  the  bow ; 
God !  where  all  thy  skies  are  gladness, 

Wilt  Thou  disappoint  us  ?  —  No ! 


(252) 


HYMN  TO   THE   CROSS. 


Shall  I  be  dumb,  whose  harp  was  slave 

When  folly  asked  a  song  from  me  ? 
Shall  I  be  stupid  now,  who  gave 

To  every  idol  willing  knee  ! 
No !  let  the  world  rebuke  my  zeal, 

And  scoffs  upon  my  purpose  fling ! 
I  '11  teach  the  strings  the  joy  I  feel, 

Harp,  song,  and  soul  shall  praise  the  King. 

What  though  the  Cross,  to  those  who  die, 

Appeals  in  vain  with  tears  and  blood,  — 
They  hearing  not  its  human  cry, 

They  seeing  not  upon  it  God,  — 
Yet,  veiled  within  this  type  of  guilt, 

Salvation  is  beheld  by  Faith ; 
She  sees  the  stream  for  rebels  spilt, 

She  hears  the  words  that  Mercy  saith. 


But  little  deemed  the  sworded  bands, 

Who  raised  thee  on  Judea's  steep, 
That  to  the  Cross  should  Gentile  lands, 

Though  cold  and  flinty,  look  and  weep. 
But  little  deemed  the  mitred  priest, 

Or  scribe,  who  urged  the  furious  yell, 
That  with  thy  reign  their  empire  ceased, 

That  at  thy  rise  tradition  fell. 


(253) 

But  little  deemed  the  rabble  rout, 

Self-damned,  by  imprecation  rash  — 
Who,  drunk  with  madness,  gave  the  shout, 

And  robe  and  thorn,  and  reed  and  lash  — 
That  ages  thence,  till  Time  is  done, 

Mankind  shall  reverence  yield  to  Thee ; 
And  to  thy  Slain,  who,  dying,  won, 

Earth,  hell,  and  heaven  shall  bow  the  knee. 


Nor  they,  of  all,  the  only  true, 

Who  pressed  upon  thy  Victim's  hem,  — 
Nor  yet  their  Saviour  fully  knew, 

The  "  Daughters  of  Jerusalem ; " 
Though  they,  with  Woman's  earnest  truth, 

Watched  through  the  earthquake  and  the  gloom, 
And  hasted  in  the  morning's  youth, 

With  precious  spices  to  His  tomb. 

A  pledge,  a  treasure,  treason's  word, 

A  bauble  at  the  papal  shrine,  — 
A  standard,  when  the  world  was  stirred, 

To  sweep  the  fields  of  Palestine,  — 
A  sweet  memorial  of  the  dead, 

That  die  in  Him  who  died  on  thee, 
Thou,  Cross !  on  which  the  Paschal  bled, 

Hast  been,  and  art,  and  yet  shalt  be. 

And  thee,  a  gem,  may  pilgrims  wear, 
Or  dark-eyed  maidens  of  the  South,  — 

By  thee  the  bearded  Russ  may  swear, 
Or  Greek  profess  with  lying  mouth ; 

22 


( 25^) 

Or,  of  the  cowl  and  cloister,  he 

Thy  seal  shall  on  the  forehead  make, 

And  laugh  at  paid  immunity 

From  sin  he  never  need  forsake. 


Or  thou  mayst  glare  amid  the  gloom 

That  wraps  the  assassin  paths  of  Spain ; 
Or  thee,  in  pomp,  imperial  Rome 

May  lift,  the  sign  of  Error's  reign ; 
We  claim  no  less  the  symbol  given, 

So  simple,  true,  like  our  belief — 
Despised  by  Earth,  approved  by  Heaven  — 

Of  peace  and  pain,  of  joy  and  grief. 

Though  planted  on  a  barren  hill, 

Thou  art  a  tree  whose  worth  divine 
Yields  more  delight,  the  sense  to  fill, 

Than  stately  palm,  or  clustering  vine. 
Beneath  thy  boughs,  all  stained  with  gore, 

I  stand  and  pluck  the  fruit  above, 
Whose  sweetness  relish  leaves  for  more, 

Whose  fragrance  is  Immortal  Love. 


0,  Blood  of  the  Incarnate  One  ! 

0  Voice  !  that  warns  and  woos  from  sin, 
Dost  thou  for  me  thus  freely  run  ? 

Dost  thou  speak  thus,  and  call  me  in  ? 
Is  grace  so  near  for  me,  so  vile  ? 

Stoops  Love  to  such  a  slave  of  lust? 
Shall  /  be  sharer  in  thy  smile  ? 

Are  thrones  reserved  for  groveling  dust  ? 


(255) 

I,  loser  by  the  fatal  tree, 

In  Adam,  —  see  it  all  restored 
By  Him,  the  Adam,  who,  on  thee, 

My  pardon  bought,  my  Saviour,  Lord. 
In  life,  I  '11  glory  in  the  shame 

The  foolish  world  in  thee  discerns  ; 
In  death,  I  '11  seek  no  other  Name 

Than  His,  the  unbeliever  spurns. 

I  hear  and  trust  that  pardoning  Voice, 

I  see  and  seek  that  healing  Blood, 
And  in  the  dying  Man  rejoice, 

And  glory  in  the  living  God. 
And  can  I  bid  my  song  be  mute  ? 

So  apt. to  speak  of  worldly  dross  — 
Wake,  soul  and  song  and  lyre  and  lute ! 

To  tell  the  wonders  of  the  Cross. 


A  SIMILE. 

In  the  dew-drop  you  behold 

Myriad  splendors  merged  in  one  ; 

Showing,  like  a  sea  of  gold, 
All  the  glories  of  the  sun. 

Man,  before  the  throne  above,  — 
Where  no  sinful  foot  hath  trod,  — 

Thus  reflects  the  perfect  love 
Of  the  awful,  glorious  God. 


(256) 


ADIEU  TO  THE  BARK  STAMBOUL  MTH  MISSIONARIES. 

Christian  ship,  of  Turkish  title, 
Rich  in  Heaven's  treasure  — 

March !  march !  in  God's  Name, 
To  wind  and  water's  measure. 

Home  the  gospel  laborer  take, 

Who  takes  his  sickle,  bright ; 
Home !  —  the  Missionary's  home 

Is  where  the  fields  are  white. 

No  farewells  !  can  they  part 

Who  are  linked  in  union  ? 
Toss  between  us,  billows !  heart 

Is  with  them  in  communion. 

March !  march !  upon  the  waters ; 

Joyful  is  our  song ; 
God !  who  love  Thee  must  be  joyful  — 

They  who  trust  Thee,  strong. 

Dance,  ye  banners  !  strain  ye  sails  ! 

Softly  now  and  fair  — 
What  a  breeze  hath  Heaven's  Ship  ! 

What  a  breath  is  Prayer ! 


(257) 


HYMN, 

Sung  at  the  Anniversary  of  the  Howard  Benevolent  Society,  of  Boston, 
in  the  Old  South  Church,  November,  1S42. 

O  Thou  of  Calvary  !  Thou  didst  bear 
Our  sad  infirmity  and  care ; 
Our  griefs  didst  to  thy  bosom  take, 
And  soothe  them  for  compassion's  sake. 

Thy  blessed  feet  the  hovel  trod, 

Where  Want  was  shunned  of  all  but  God ; 

Thy  healing  hand  did  softly  press 

The  forehead  troubled  by  distress. 

Thou  art  Benevolence,  Divine ! 
Impart  to  us  that  love  of  Thine, — 
Disinterested,  quiet,  pure, 
With  constancy  that  shall  endure. 

May  we  to  men  by  deeds  of  Love 
Exemplify  Thee,  though  above ; 
And  in  Thy  life  our  duty  see, 
And,  as  disciples,  follow  Thee. 

Disciples  —  not  in  creed  alone  ; 
Of  Thee,  by  works,  may  each  be  known ; 
Nor  vainly  dream  a  faith  that 's  dead 
Unites  to  Christ,  the  Living  Head. 

So,  in  Thy  Day,  to  question  made, 
"  Have  ye  Compassion's  law  obeyed  ?  " 
In  dust,  we  will  no  merit  take, 
While  answering,  "  Yes,  for  Thy  dear  sake/" 

22* 


(258  ) 


HYMN, 

Sung  at  the  Anniversary  of  the  American  Education  Society,  in  Park 
Street  Church,  Boston,  May,  1842. 

This  Earth,  to  the  thorn  and  the  brier  now  given, 

Was  meant  to  show  flowers  and  fruitage  for  Heaven ; 

Though  failing  in  these,  't  is  not  hopeless,  0,  no ! 

Here  grain  for  the  Lord  may  abundantly  grow ; 

Truth's  metaphor  shines  when  he  calls  it  a  field 

That  can  wheat  both  for  time  and  eternity  yield ; 

Yet  we've  wept  and  we've  toiled,  and  what  more  can  we  do  ? 

The  harvest  is  plenteous,  the  laborers  are  few. 

"  Too  many  I "  —  Yes,  one  for  a  destitute  world 
Were  too  many  for  him  who  has  o'er  it  unfurled 
His  banner  of  darkness.     "  Too  many  "  from  woe, 
Eternal,  its  millions  to  rescue  ?     O  no  ! 
Hear  Africa,  Asia,  America,  cry ; 
Hear  Europe ;  —  we  hear,  and  while  hearing,  they  die  ! 
Yet  we've  wept  and  we've  toiled,  and  what  more  can  we  do  ? 
The  harvest  is  plenteous,  the  laborers  are  few. 

Up,  Christian,  who  long  in  the  furrow  hast  trod ; 
Up,  convert,  with  all  your  fresh  vigor  for  God ; 
Up  aged,  up  manhood,  up  youth  at  the  call, 
Though  you  rally  by  thousands,  there 's  labor  for  all ; 
That  soil  you  shall  vanquish,  by  faith  it  is  won ! 
That  wheat  you  shall  gather,  by  prayer  it  is  done ! 
Pray  ye,  therefore,  the  Master  more  laborers  to  send, 
Heaven's  joy  to  begin,  and  Earth's  sorrow  to  end. 


(259  ) 


SUNDAY  AT  PLYMOUTH,  MASS. 

'T  is  good  for  us  to  rest  to-day, 

And  keep  the  precept  well ; 
'T  is  good  in  village  church  to  pray. 

At  warning  of  the  bell. 

'T  is  good  in  fair  and  noble  towns, 

By  brilliant  thousands  trod, 
Or  where  the  forests  wear  their  crowns, 

To  stay  and  worship  God. 

'Tis  good  upon  the  bounding  seas 

To  pray  with  soul  and  lip ; 
God  spies  the  sailor  on  his  knees, 

Aboard  the  merchant  ship. 

And  here,  where  our  forefathers  sleep, 
Who  crossed  of  yore  the  waves, 

'T  is  good  the  Sabbath-day  to  keep 
Among  their  ancient  graves. 

'T  is  good  to  dwell  where  they  have  dwelt ; 

'T  is  good  awhile  to  stay 
And  pray  at  altars  where  they  knelt, 

As  they  were  wont  to  pray. 

Though  from  our  rites  the  thoughtful  eye 

May  wander  where  are  seen 
The  tokens  of  the  dead,  that  lie 

In  ranks  of  summer  green : 

Who,  while  we  wait  upon  the  Lord, 

That  blessings  may  distil  — 
For  us,  their  sons,  keep  watch  and  ward 

On  yonder  silent  hill : 


(260) 

We,  as  did  they,  in  pilgrimage 
Lean  on  these  Sabbath  hours ; 

Theirs,  in  each  past  eventful  stage  ■ 
0  present  God,  be  ours ! 


HYMN, 


Sung  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Baptist  Meeting  House  in  Pawtucket,  R.  L, 
December  15,  1S42. 

We  give  Thee  not  a  shrine  of  gold, 
Nor  oils  and  gums  of  price  untold ; 
No  glory-cloud  to-day  hath  shone, 
As  filled  the  house  of  Solomon. 

Yet  here  our  hearts  have  inly  burned ; 
Yet  here  the  wanderer  hath  returned ; 
How  deep  the  love  !  how  sweet  the  fear  ! 
"  One  greater  than  the  temple 's  here." 

This  house  —  in  which  to  teach  Thy  way, 
That  God  must  rule  and  man  obey  — 
Where  doctrines  shall  distil,  where  all 
On  Thee,  in  truth,  may  freely  call,  — 

Where  converts,  as  the  drops  of  dew, 
Shall  gather ;  saints  their  vows  renew  — 
We  dedicate  to  Father,  Son, 
And  Holy  Spirit,  Three  in  One. 


L. 


(261) 


HYMN  FOR  HARD  TIMES. 

Thy  blessing,  gracious  Providence, 

If  thou  to  man  reveal,  — 
The  manufacturer  plies  his  art, 

And  commerce  speeds  the  wheel. 
On  skill  to  plan,  and  toil  to  frame, 

If  thou  thy  smile  bestow, 
The  vein  is  reached,  and  streams  of  gold 

Run  in  perpetual  flow. 

But  when  Thy  frown  appears,  the  tide 

Rolls  back  with  angry  power ; 
And  then,  oh !  God,  what  dreams  of  pride, 

Years-built  —  die  in  an  hour ! 
How  strangely  vanish  yellow  heaps, 

That  painful  toil  has  raised  ! 
How  frightful  is  the  labyrinth,  then, 

TVhere  wisdom's  self  is  mazed ! 

If  in  the  mighty  gulf  is  whelmed 

One  who  has  bowed  to  pelf, 
Or  one  whose  narrow  purposes 

Have  centered  in  himself, 
By  this  sharp  trial  show  to  him  — 

Perhaps  a  lesson  new  — 
That  he  alone  lives  up  to  Man, 

Who  lives  for  others  too. 

And  if  Thy  finger  him  has  touched, 
And  fairest  prospects  riven  — 

Who,  as  Thine  almoner,  dispensed 
Thy  gifts,  as  dews  of  heaven,  — 


(262) 

His  noble  heart,  that  was  not  wed 

To  these,  do  Thou  refine ; 
And  by  this  kind  rebuking  make 

Yet  more  Thy  servant  thine. 

Oh !  it  is  merciful  that  thus 

Thy  chastening  hand  is  felt, 
When  we,  departing  from  Thy  shrine, 

Have  to  our  idols  knelt. 
Then  let  this  call,  so  loud,  so  stern, 

Which  our  whole  nation  hears  — 
Now  sweetly  win  us  to  return, 

In  penitence  and  tears  ! 


THE  LEGACY. 

The  following  is  the  closing  paragraph  of  Patrick  Henry's  will :  "  I  have 
now  disposed  of  all  my  property  to  my  family ;  there  is  one  thing  more  I 
wish  I  could  give  them,  and  that  is  the  Christian  Religion.  If  they  had 
this,  and  1  had  not  given  them  one  shilling,  they  would  be  rich  ;  and  if 
they  had  not  this,  and  I  had  given  them  all  the  world,  they  would  be  poor." 

He  willed  them  lands,  and  tenements,  and  gold,  — 
All  that  he  had  by  care  and  caution  won,  — 

To  those,  his  kinsmen,  to  enjoy  and  hold, 

Till  their  predestined  course,  like  his,  was  run ; 

And  each  to  others  should  the  same  devise, 

Leaving,  for  self,  memorial  —  "  Here  he  lies." 

All  that  he  had  —  save  one  unpurchased  gem, 

Which,  never  loaned  nor  bought,  could  not  be  sold 


(263) 

Nor  willed  away.     Yet,  though  the  diadem 

Of  God  were  blank  without  it,  't  is  not  bold 
To  say  that  waters,  which  the  free  winds  kiss, 
Are  not  more  plentiful  and  free  than  this. 

All  that  he  had  —  save  that,  the  lord  of  which, 
Ragged  and  starved  —  by  kings  may  envied  be  ; 

While  he  without  it,  though  as  Croesus  rich, 
Is  but  the  veriest  heir  of  poverty ; 

And  sad  inheritor,  than  penury,  worse, 

Of  the  undying  worm  —  eternity's  true  curse. 

All  that  he  had  —  My  God !  what  were  it  all, 
What  the  broad  universe  thou  fashionedst  well, 

To  that,  which,  hell  possessing,  hell  we  'd  call 

Heaven;  without  which,  heaven  would  be  a  hell? 

Nothing !  and  infinitely  less  than  nought,  — 

Without  the  treasure  worlds  have  never  bought. 

He  could  devise  lands,  tenements  and  gold,  — 
All  that  he  had  by  toil  and  talents  won,  — 

To  those,  his  kinsmen,  to  enjoy  and  hold, 
Till  their  last  sand  of  life  was  also  run ;  — 

He  could  enrich  them  with  earth's  shining  dust, 

And  glut,  to  loathing,  avaricious  lust ; 

He  could  not  give  them  the  immortal  gem, 
For  which  a  man  were  wise  to  sell  his  soul; 

Which  burns  and  flashes  in  God's  diadem. 
This  was  beyond  the  orator's  control ;  — 

Beyond,  of  wit  and  eloquence,  the  power, 

To  loan,  or  to  retain  a  single  hour. 


(264) 

Tet  they  may  have  it ;  —  thou  mayst  have  it !  —  I 
May  gather  this  into  my  hidden  place ; 

Not  to  gloat  o'er  it,  with  delighted  eye, 

And  see  it  lessen ;  — but,  with  added  grace, 

To  mark  its  glories,  sparkling,  blazing  far. 

Ineffably  serene,  a  bright  and  blessed  Star. 


AN  OLIVE  LEAF  FROM  GETHSEMAXE. 

And  this  was  plucked  by  Friendship's  hand, 
And  this  was  kindly  borne  to  me 
From  the  heart's  treasure-land, 
Gethsemane  ! 

The  conscious  soil,  that  gave  to  birth 
Its  venerable  parent  tree, 

"Was  thy  blood-moistened  earth, 
Gethsemane ! 

On  whose  cold  bosom,  that  sad  night, 
The  Guiltless  sank  for  guilty  me  ; 
When  angel-wings  made  bright 
Gethsemane ! 

When  darkness  o'er  a  God  in  tears 
Drew  solemn  veil,  that  none  might  see 
How  wrath  divine  woke  fears, 
Gethsemane ! 

When  —  that  might  pass  the  dreadful  cup, 
The  Sufferer  prayed  in  agony ; 
Yet,  bade  to  drink  it  up, 
Gethsemane  — 


©= 


©= 


(265) 

His  prayer  had  answer  in  new  power, 
Strengthened,  he  should  the  victor  be, 
Though  hell  was  strong  that  hour, 
Gethsemane ! 

0  Garden  of  Hesperides  ! 

I  seek  thy  wondrous  laden  tree, 
Whose  apple  heals  disease,  — 
Gethsemane  ! 

Eden  !  where,  if  I  take  and  eat, 
'T  is  Life,  immortal  Life  to  me ; 
My  soul's  uncloying  meat, 
Gethsemane ! 

The  thoughts  are  sweet  and  full  of  heaven, 
That  rise,  and  throng,  and  cling  to  thee ; 
Wings  !  wings  !  —  if  wings  were  given, 
Gethsemane  — 

Not  thee  I  'd  seek  ;  thou  art  too  far  ; 
The  Crucified  is  nigh  to  me ; 

Life's  Joy  —  day's  Sun  —  night's  Star 
Gethsemane ! 

All  day,  His  presence  here  to  keep, 
I  need  not  such  memorial  see ; 
All  night,  Love  doth  not  sleep, 
Gethsemane ! 

Yet  will  the  frequent  thought  return, 
AU  redolent  of  bliss  and  thee  — 

Quickening  cold  Love,  till  Love  shall  burn, 

Gethsemane ! 

23 


(266) 

No  pledge  shall  wake  my  joy ;  my  grief 
Shall  few  memorials  stir,  like  thee, 
Thou  sacred  Olive  Leaf!  — 
Gethsemane ! 

Eyes !  with  delicious  tears  be  dim ; 

Soul,  leap  !  for  Love  hath  set  thee  free  ; 
Voice  !  join  with  Calvary's  hymn 
"  Gethsemane ! " 

Anticipate  the  theme,  the  same 

That  sung  by  rescued  worlds  will  be, 
When  worlds  expire  in  flame, 
"  Gethsemane ! " 

Thou  brooding  Dove,  thou  Spirit,  come ! 
And  take  the  wanderer  home  to  thee ; 
Earth,  Earth  is  not  my  home, 
Gethsemane ! 


THE  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  TEACHER'S  HARVEST. 

Teacher  !  at  the  feet  of  Love 

Taking  thus  thy  weekly  place, 
Giving  lessons  from  above, 

With  a  winning  voice  and  face ; 
In  thy  patient,  pious  toil, 

In  thy  humble,  holy  task, 
Who  may  covet  richer  spoil  ? 

Who  may  higher  honors  ask  ? 


(2G7) 

Teacher !  leading  little  ones, 

As  thou  dost,  to  Mercy's  fold, 
Anxious  that  each  wisely  shuns 

Cunning  wolf,  and  robber  bold ; 
Anxious  that  the  Shepherd's  care, 

Staff  and  rod,  the  flock  shall  keep ; 
Canst  thou  cease  prevailing  prayer  ? 

Canst  thou  fold  thine  arms  in  sleep  ? 


No !  I  see  thee  search  the  Book, 

On  whose  page  is  living  light ; 
And  I  see  thee  upward  look 

For  the  grace  to  search  aright ; 
And  I  see  thee  take  thy  seat, 

With  a  heart  where  love  hath  rule, 
And,  what  God  hath  told,  repeat 

To  thy  class,  in  Sunday- School. 

Yes ;  and  while  to  others  thou 

Dost  life's  lessons  thus  impart, 
Hoping  future  harvest,  now 

Is  the  harvest  in  thine  heart ! 
Say  not,  months  and  years  to  come, ' 

God  will  give  the  golden  grain ; 
Shout  a  present  harvest  home  ! 

Fruit  for  labor,  joy  for  pain. 

Teacher !  he  who  scatters  seed 
O'er  the  fallow  ground  of  youth, 

Gathers  for  his  own  best  need,  — 
Binds  for  self,  the  sheaves  of  Truth ! 


(268) 

"  He  who  watereth,"  God  hath  said, 
"  Shall  be  watered  ; "  who,  in  praise, 
Scatters  to  the  hungry,  bread, 
Finds,  nor  waiteth  "  many  days." 


THE  GRAVE  OF  PAYS  ON. 

In  the  burial  ground  at  Portland  are  three  monuments  erected  to  com- 
memorate the  achievements  of  naval  heroes  who  fell  in  the  battles  of  their 
country.  There  is  also  a  plain,  neat  obelisk,  with  the  name,  and  dates  of 
the  birth,  ministry  and  death  of  the  late  lamented  Payson,  to  which  is 
added  the  touching  line,  "  His  record  is  on  high.'11 

I  stood,  in  silence  and  alone, 

Just  at  the  Sabbath  shut  of  day, 
Where,  quietly,  the  modest  stone 

Told  me  that  Payson's  relics  lay. 
No  gorgeous  tale  nor  herald's  arms 

Astonished  with  their  splendid  lie, 
Or  hireling  praise  ;  —  in  truth's  meek  charms 

It  said,  "  His  record  is  on  high." 

I  gazed  around  the  burial  spot 

That  looks  on  Portland's  spires  below, 
And  on  her  thousands  who  are  not, 

Did  sad  yet  useful  thought  bestow :  — 
Here  sleep  they  till  the  trumpet's  tongue 

Shall  peal  along  a  blazing  sky ; 
Yet  who  of  these  —  the  old  and  young  — 

May  read  his  record  then  on  high! 


(269) 

And  near,  I  saw  the  early  grave 

Of  him  who  fought  at  Tripoli ; 
Who  would  not  live  the  Moslem's  slave, 

Who  nobly  perished  to  be  free ! 
And,  wrapt  in  freedom's  starry  flag, 

The  chief  who  dared  to  do  or  die ; 
And  England's  son,  who  could  not  lag  — 

Whose  deeds  his  country  wrote  on  high. 

What  glory  lit  their  spirit's  track, 

When  from  the  gory  deck  they  flew ! 
Could  wishes  woo  the  heroes  back  ? 

Say,  did  not  fame  their  path  pursue  ? 
Oh,  gently  sleep  the  youthful  brave 

Who  fall  where  martial  clarions  cry  — 
The  men,  entombed  in  earth  or  wave, 

Whose  blood-writ  record  is  on  high ! 

I  turned  again  to  Payson's  clay, 

And  recollected,  well,  how  bright 
The  radiance,  far  outshining  day, 

That  robed  his  soaring  soul  in  light. 
What  music  stole  awhile  from  heaven, 

To  charm  away  his  parting  sigh ! 
What  wings  to  waft  him  home  were  given, 

Whose  holy  record  was  on  high ! 

And  give  me  —  trembling,  said  I  then  — 
Some  place,  my  Saviour,  where  such  dwell, 

And  far  above  the  pride  of  men 

And  pomp  of  which  the  worldlings  tell 

23* 


(270) 

Will  be  my  lot ;  —  come,  haughty  kings ! 

And  ye  who  pass  in  glitter  by, 
And  feel  that  ye  are  abject  things, 

Whose  record  is  not  found  on  high. 


DEPARTING. 

"  Then  the  priest  shall  let  them  depart  with  this  blessing :  —  *  The  peace 
of  God,  which  passeth  all  understanding,  keep  your  hearts  and  minds  in  the 
knowledge  and  love  of  God,  and  of  his  Son,  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord ;  and 
the  blessing  of  God  A^.-gnty,  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  be 
amongst  you,  and  reu**un  with  you  always.*  "  —  The  Rubric. 

'T  is  pleasant,  in  the  courts  of  God, 

When  vows  and  hymn  and  ritual  cease, 
To  note  their  awful  threshold  trod 

By  feet  that  go  at  words  of  peace. 
"  Depart  with  blessing  !  "  —  How  sincere 

And  touching  is  the  holy  tone, 
That  dies  in  music  on  the  ear 

Of  earth,  and  lives  to  heaven  alone ! 

And  when  my  fading  thoughts  refuse 

All  utterance  to  the  quivering  lip,  — 
And  my  glad  soul  in  upper  dews 

Its  mounting  wing  prepares  to  dip,  — 
Give  me  to  hear  that  word  below,  — 

The  last  ere  nature's  flutterings  cease  — 
From  tears  and  toil  and  empty  show 

To  truth  and  smiles  —  Depart  in  peace  ! 


©= 


(271) 


THE  REMEMBERED  BOOK.* 

He  who  bestows  a  useful  book 

On  some  ingenuous  boy, 
May  lodge  a  thought  in  memory's  nook, 

Which  ages  can't  destroy. 
A  seed  may  scatter  on  that  field, 
Whose  tribute  shall  a  thousand  yield 

A  harvest-home  of  joy. 
A  casual  gift  of  earnest  love, 

For  Jesus  done,  to  men  unknown  — 
That  shall  be  set  with  gems  above, 

Around  the  eternal  throne. 

Thee,  little  book  !  a  noble  heart 

Made  mine,  in  early  days, 
With  hope,  thy  lessons  might  impart 

Some  thirst  for  Wisdom's  ways. 
In  sunshine  I  thy  page  devoured, 
I  read  thee  when  misfortune  lowered, 

And  read  thee  but  to  praise. 
My  fancy,  by  thy  beauties  caught, 

Admired  the  portraiture  divine ; 
The  head  retained  the  knowledge  taught, 

The  heart  proclaimed,  "  't  is  mine." 

Years  pass  —  I  meet  thee  yet  again, 

One  half  my  journey  done  — 
Behind  are  toils,  before  is  pain, 

The  garland  is  not  won. 

*  "  Zion's  Pilgrim,"  by  Robert  Hawker;   a  book  given  me  in  my  boy- 
hood, by  an  excellent  friend. 


o= 


(272) 

Experience  shows  how  rich  the  truth 
Whose  simple  graces  charmed  my  youth, 

And,  ere  my  race  is  run, 
May  I  be  wise  a  soul  to  win  — 

As  did  my  friend,  by  gifts  and  prayer, 
A  helpless  mortal  snatch  from  sin, 

A  spirit  from  despair. 


THE  MISSIONARY  JUDSON. 

Burmah's  Apostle  !     I  can  style  no  less 
Him  who  for  Burmah  freely  yielded  all  — 
Soul  to  sharp  pangs,  limbs  to  the  fetter's  thrall,  - 
"Wrung  for  the  Master  with  so  strange  distress. 
Whether  of  joy  or  grief,  ?t  were  hard  to  guess 
Those  Voices  of  the  Past  that  on  thee  call ! 
For  in  their  sweet,  yet  melancholy  fall 
Come  memories  of  the  gone,  that  sorely  press 
On  thy  twice  smitten  heart ;  and  still  inwrought 
With  these,  sublimely  soars  the  ecstatic  thought 
That  Pagans  in  far  Ava  and  Rangoon, 
Where  in  wild  beauty  Irrawaddy  flows  — 
By  thee  are  dowered  wTith  the  Gospel  boon. 
Such  grief,  such  joy,  the  Missionary  knows ! 
1846. 


(273) 


GETHSEMANE. 

'T  is  Midnight,  —  and  on  Olive's  brow 
The  star  is  dimmed  that  lately  shone ; 

'T  is  Midnight  —  in  the  garden  now, 
The  suffering  Saviour  prays  alone. 

'T  is  Midnight  —  and  from  all  removed, 
Immanuel  wrestles,  lone,  with  fears ; 

E'en  the  disciple  that  he  loved 

Heeds  not  his  Master's  grief  and  tears. 

'T  is  Midnight  —  and  for  others'  guilt 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  weeps  in  blood ; 

Yet  He,  that  hath  in  anguish  knelt, 
Is  not  forsaken  by  his  God. 

'T  is  IMidnight  —  from  the  heavenly  plains, 
Are  borne  the  songs  that  angels  know ; 

Unheard  by  mortals  are  the  strains 
That  sweetly  soothe  the  Saviour's  woe. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE   TOMATO. 


Tomato  !  thou  art  like  the  mind 
That  moves  not  feebly  with  mankind ; 
Who  love  thee,  give  a  generous  part, 
Who  hate  thee,  hate  with  all  the  heart. 

My  morsel  good,  my  table  neat, 
I  am  not  anxious  what  I  eat ; 
If  she,  whose  smile  is  always  glad, 
Lights  up  the  meal,  't  is  never  bad. 

I  have  my  favorite,  as  have  most, 
Among  the  baked,  and  boiled,  and  roast ; 
Yet,  for  my  tit-bit,  would  not  go 
To  farther  clime  than  Mexico. 

To  Mexico  !  —  I  give  him  praise 
Who,  hither,  from  those  unknown  ways, 
And  barbarous  men,  of  Spanish  breed, 
Conveyed  the  small  Tomato  seed. 

Sure,  with  his  lion-heart  and  skill, 
He  might  have  sacked  her  mines  at  will  — 
But  Mexico's  chief  wealth  to  take !  — 
I  '11  love  Tomato  for  his  sake. 

24 


(278) 

And  for  thine  own,  celestial  Fruit ! 
(Not  vegetable,)  made  to  suit 
All  circumstances  ;  or  to  pluck 
And  eat,  as  I  in  Old  Kentuck 

Have  done  ;  or  with  white  sugar  sliced, 
Or  soused  in  vinegar,  well  spiced, 
Or  smothered  in  the  pie,  or  stewed,  — 
Which  I  like  best,  —  thou  art  of  food 

The  simplest,  sweetest,  richest,  best. 

O,  had  my  humble  verses  zest 

Half  as  delicious  as  thine  own, 

From  Byron,  Burns,  I  'd  take  the  throne, 

Superior  in  artistic  pride 

As  thou  to  edibles  beside  ! 

I  see  from  earth  thy  tendril  peep, 

And  on  its  bosom  try  to  creep, 

Till,  propped  secure,  it  stands  upright, 
And  brings  its  tiny  germs  to  light. 
I  see  thee  on  the  laden  bush, 
(Not  to  excess  my  verse  to  push,) 

In  thy  first  coat  of  emerald  green, 
That  soon  a  brilliant  scarlet 's  seen ; 
I  see  thee  gathered,  scalded,  skinned  — 
Some  care  in  stripping  off  thy  rind  — 

Then  duly  cut,  by  practice,  nice, 
In  pieces  small,  and  in  a  trice, 
With  rites  of  salt  and  butter  paid  — 
In  sauce-pan  buried,  and  o'erlaid 


(  279  ) 

With  cover,  that  the  steaming  tin 
The  needful  heat  may  keep  within ;  — 
Soon  done  —  ye  fair !  the  bowl  produce. 
And  fill  it  with  the  pulp  and  juice ;  — 

And  now  —  with  bread  (or  toast)  and  tea, 
Nought  else  —  a  feast  for  princes  see  ! 
For  princes  ?  mouth  of  King  Phillippe, 
Or  dame  Victoria's  pretty  lip, 

Hath  bliss  beyond  a  monarch's  lacked, 
If  neither  hath  Tomato  smacked. 
Not  fruit  the  lovely  Houri  sees, 
Not  apple  of  Hesperides, 

Not  cantelope,  or  luscious  grape, 
Not  pear  of  bell,  or  other  shape, 
Not  melon,  of  red  juicy  core, 
Not  cocoa-nut,  of  milky  store, 

Not  Persia's  peach,  whose  blush  outvies 
The  tints  of  her  delightful  skies, 
Not  purple  plum,  nor  damson  pale,  — 
Though  choicest  of  Nonantum  vale,  — 

Not  dishes  of  a  thousand  lands, 
To  fatten  cooks  and  kill  gourmands, 
Westphalian  ham,  Bohemian  boar, 
Or  haggis,  which  the  Scotch  adore ; 

"  Ros  bif "  of  England,  Frenchman's  frog, 
Or  Sandwich  Island  hog  or  dog, 
Nor  all  that  gastronomic  scroll, 
Though  Epicurus  called  the  roll, 


(  280) 

Or  horticultural  art  can  show 
May,  with  the  pride  of  Mexico  — 
"  Quick  !  quick  !  sure,  husband,  love,  you  're  heady, 
D'  ye  hear  ?  leave  off!   Tomato  's  ready  !  " 


THE  PIOUS  RUM-SELLER'S  SOLILOQUY. 

'T  is  so  —  He  that  made  the  good  creature  for  use, 

Judges  not  on  account  of  its  ills  or  abuse. 

For  this,  and  all  gifts,  I  am  thankful,  't  is  seen, 

From  its  evils  —  if  any  —  I  wash  my  hands  clean. 

Many  years,  thank  the  Lord  !  I  've  been  prospered,  't  is  true, 

His  blessing  has  fallen,  refreshing  as  dew, 

On  my  basket  and  store,  and  an  unction  doth  dwell 

With  every  good  glass  that  I  swallow  or  sell. 

0,  how  my  full  heart  with  due  gratitude  thrills, 

As  I  think  of  the  quantities  —  made  up  of  gills  — 

The  thousands  of  gallons  of  Brandy  and  Rum 

I  've  sold,  and  the  dollars  that  make  up  the  sum ! 

I  began  with  slight  means,  and  the  Hearer  of  Prayer, 

Though  I  dealt  by  the  small,  shed  his  benison  there. 

I  had  crowds  in  the  morning,  who  called  for  their  dram  — 

Distinguishing  favor!  unworthy  I  am  ! 

Every  bloated  old  drunkard  who  wanted  a  drop, 

All  praise  to  my  Maker !  would  come  to  my  shop ; 

As  I  gave  him  the  poison  and  took  his  last  cent, 

How  pure  my  thanksgivings  to  heaven  that  went ! 

Though  his  wife  was  in   trouble  for  her  I 'd  no  fears, 

I  trusted  that  Mercy  would  dry  up  her  tears ; 


(  281  ) 

And,  sometimes,  when  counting  my  gains  up  at  night, 
I  have  knelt  to  ask  God  for  his  blessings  to  light 
On  her  poor  starving  children  ;  and  while  at  the  throne 
For  relief  to  her  bosom,  found  joy  in  my  own. 

But,  O,  times  are  altered,  —  I  know  to  his  saints 
God  graciously  hearkens,  nor  chides  their  complaints ; 
I  would  lean  on  Him,  therefore,  in  confident  trust, 
That  He  yet  will  uphold  and  will  strengthen  the  just. 
JT  is  true,  to  make  money,  my  cares  and  my  pains 
Are  not  very  trifling,  nor  small  are  my  gains  ; 
Yet  neighbors  reprove  me  —  to  them  I  am  dumb, 
Forgive  as  I  ought,  and  invite  all  to  come ; 
And  live  in  meek  hope  that  these  matters  may  mend :  — 
Here  and  there  in  our  churches,  good  Rum  has  a  friend  ; 
Some,  too,  that  on  Sundays  will  serve  (and  look  civil) 
God's  cup,  and  six  days  give  the  cup  of  the  devil. 
Yet  I  mourn  in  my  soul  that  I  Ve  fallen  on  times, 
When  buying  and  selling  are  counted  as  crimes ; 
When  of  good  reputation  no  man  is  secure, 
(Though  there  's  some  solace  left,  if  of  cash  he  is  sure !) 
Alas,  for  the  profits  of  honest  lang  syne  — 
The  days  when  rum-sellers  sat  under  their  vine 
Distilling  and  selling,  while  none  made  afraid, 
Except  scoundrels  that  died  ere  their  dues  they  had  paid. 
When  holy  men  openly  bought  by  the  keg, 
Xor  a  tongue  for  the  traffic  against  them  could  wag ; 
When  times  of  refreshing  the  Sabbath  would  bring, 
In  the  shape  of  hot  toddy,  or  tumbler  of  sling ; 
And  when  our  good  parson,  not  fearing  ill  tongues, 
Took  a  glass  after  sermon  to  strengthen  his  lungs. 

They  tell  me  of  Dobbins,  now  dead  in  his  grave, 
Who  perished  in  shame,  to  my  liquor  a  slave. 

24* 


(282) 

True,  he  mortgaged  to  me,  in  his  trouble,  his  farm ; 
'T  was  spent  at  my  counter  —  yet  where  was  the  harm  ? 
A  mite  of  the  profits  I  gave  to  the  poor, 
For  hoarding  each  penny  I  cannot  endure. 

Then  there  was  young  Richard,  the  carpenter's  son, 
Stout,  happy  and  good,  till  his  custom  I  won. 
Sure  enough  he  would  drink,  and  if  he  would  buy, 
Some  one  must  sell  to  him  ;  if  so,  why  not  I  ? 
If  I  had  not  sold  it,  my  neighbor  Smith  would ; 
His  use  of  the  money  might  not  have  been  good. 
Yet  sometimes  it  grieves  me,  I  freely  confess, 
To  think  of  his  family  steeped  in  distress ; 
I  've  almost  regretted  I  fingered  his  cash, 
Drink  made  him,  poor  fellow  !  so  crazy  and  rash  ; 
For,  drunk  with  my  brandy,  one  night  he  went  wild, 
And  bathed  his  own  hands  in  the  blood  of  his  child. 

Is  the  Lord  indeed  angry  ?  —  will  He  his  wrath  urge  ? 
He  sendeth  against  us  the  Temperance  scourge ! 
And  lo,  how  its  doings  are  troubling  the  saints ! 
The  soul  of  the  dealer  is  heavy,  and  faints. 
If  Abstinence  thrives  —  hateful  parent  of  ill  — 
How  soon  may  be  strangled  the  Worm  of  the  Still ! 
Come  Famine  !  come  Fever  !  with  pestilent  breath ; 
Come  War !  and  lead  men,  by  whole  kingdoms,  to  death  ; 
But  spare  us,  of  judgments,  the  last  and  the  worst  — 
Let  not  our  dear  land  be  with  Temperance  cursed. 
Confound,  Lord,  its  schemes  —  for  thy  servant  would  dwell 
In  Tophet,  as  soon  as  a  Temperance  Hotel. 
Its  agents,  its  tracts,  and  its  tee-total  ships  — 
Could  a  word  blast  them  all,  it  would  rush  to  my  lips. 
Its  warnings  to  me  of  eternity  ring, 
My  conscience  is  wakened  and  writhes  with  the  sting. 


®= 


(283) 

Destroy,  Lord  !  its  refuge  —  its  entering  wedge 
To  mischief,  that 's  known  as  the  Cold  Water  Pledge. 
0,  frown  on  their  plans  who  forsake  the  old  ways, 
And  I  '11  drink  to  their  ruin,  and  give  Thee  the  praise  ! 


@= 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  TOMB. 
A  Story  of  Newburyport. 

Where  Whitefield  sleeps,  remembered,  in  the  dust, 

The  lowly  vault  held  once  a  double  trust ; 

And  Parsons,  reverend  name,  that  quiet  tomb 

Possessed  —  to  wait  the  day  of  weal  and  doom. 

Another  servant  of  the  living  God, 

Prince,  who  (bereft  of  sight)  his  way  had  trod, 

Unerringly  and  safe,  life's  journey  through  — 

Now  sought  admittance  as  a  slumberer  too. 

As  earth  receded,  and  the  Eden  blest 

Pose  on  his  vision  —  "  Let  my  body  rest 

With  Whitefield's,"  —  said  he,  yielding  up  his  breath ; 

Joined  in  their  lives,  and  parted  not  in  death. 

Obedient  to  his  wish,  in  order  then 

Were  all  things  clone  ;  the  tomb  was  oped  to  ken 

Of  curious  eyes  —  made  ready  to  enclose 

Another  tenant  in  its  kind  repose ; 

And,  lighted  with  a  single  lamp,  whose  ray 

Fell  dimly  down  upon  the  mouldering  clay, 

Was  left,  once  more,  to  silence  as  of  night, 

Till  hour  appointed  for  the  funeral  rite. 


(284) 

It  chanced,  the  plodding  teacher  of  a  school  - 
A  man  of  whims,  bold,  reckless,  yet  no  fool  — 
Deemed  this  an  opportunity  to  test 
How  far  the  fears  of  spirits  might  infest 
The  bosom  of  a  child.     A  likely  boy, 
The  choicest  of  his  flock,  a  mother's  joy, 
He  took,  unscrupulous  of  means,  if  he 
His  ends  might  gain,  and  solve  the  mystery. 


Both  stood  within  the  mansion  of  the  dead, 
And  wrhile  the  stripling  mused,  the  teacher  fled, 
Leaving  the  child,  where  the  dull  cresset  shone, 
"With  the  dumb  relics  and  his  God  alone. 
As  the  trap-door  fell  suddenly,  the  stroke, 
Sullen  and  harsh,  his  solemn  re  very  broke. 
"Wliere  is  he  ?  — Barred  within  the  dreadful  womb 
Of  the  cold  earth  —  the  living  in  the  tomb  ! 
The  opened  coffins  showed  Death's  doings,  sad  — 
The  awful  dust  in  damps  and  grave-mould  clad. 
Though  near  the  haunts  of  busy,  cheerful  day, 
He,  to  drear  night  and  solitude  the  prey ! 
Must  he  be  watcher  with  these  corpses  !  —  ^Vho 
Can  tell  what  sights  may  rise  ?    Will  reason  then  be  true  ? 
Must  he  —  a  blooming,  laughter-loving  child  — 
Be  mated  thus  ?  —  The  thought  was  cruel,  wild ! 
His  knees  together  smote,  as  first,  in  fear, 
He  gazed  around  his  prison  ;  —  then  a  tear 
Sprang  to  his  eyes  in  kind  relief;  and  said 
The  little  boy,  u  I Will  not  be  afraid. 
Was  cvet'  spirit  of  the  good  man  known 
To  injure  children  whom  it  found  alone  ?  " 


(285) 

And  straight  he  tasked  his  memory,  to  supply- 
Stories  and  texts,  to  show  lie  might  rely 
Most  safely,  humbly,  on  his  Father's  care  — 
"Wlio  hears  a  child's  as  well  as  prelate's  prayer. 
And  thus  he  stood  —  on  Whitefield's  form  his  glance 
In  reverence  fixed  —  and  hoped  deliverance. 

Meanwhile,  the  recreant  teacher,  —  where  was  he  ? 
Gone,  unabashed,  to  take  a  cup  of  tea 
"With  the  lad's  mother  !  —  Supper  done,  he  told 
The  deed  that  should  display  her  son  as  bold. 
"With  eye  indignant  and  with  words  of  flame, 
How  showers  that  mother,  scorn,  rebuke  and  shame ! 
She  bids  him  haste  !  and  hastes  herself,  to  bring 
Him  from  Death's  realm  who  knew  not  yet  its  sting; 
And  yet  believed  —  so  well  her  child  she  knew  — 
The  noble  boy  would  to  himself  be  true  ; 
He  would  himself  sustain,  and  she  should  find 
Him  patient  and  possessed ;  and  thus  she  stayed  her  mind. 

The  boy  yet  lives  —  and  from  that  distant  hour 
Dates  much  of  truth  that  on  his  heart  hath  power ;  — 
Ajid  chiefly  this,  —  whate'er  of  jest  is  wed 
To  speech  of  his,  —  to  reverence  the  dead. 


(286) 


THE   SOLEMN  PETITION  OF  JOHN  SMITH;* 

TO   THE   GENERAL   COURT   OF   MASSACHUSETTS,   HUMBLY   SHOWETH.* 

That  the  marrow  and  the  pith 
Of  his  grievance  is,  John  Smith, 
Being  a  cognomen  in  use, 
Is  exposed  to  great  abuse. 
Such  a  number  in  our  town  — 
Farmer,  trader,  cobbler,  clown  — 
Wear  it,  makes  it  inconvenient ; 
Briefly,  therefore,  his  intent, 
From  your  Body,  is  redress 
To  implore  for  this  distress. 
Your  petitioner,  so  please  ye,  — 
Not  designing  long  to  tease  ye, 
Knowing  legislator's  time  is 
Very  precious ;  though  his  rhyme  is 
Rather  "  lengthy,"  —  is  in  trouble, 
Being  somewhat  more  than  double  ; 
Filling,  —  true,  as  he  respects  ye,  — 
Fifty  pages  of  Direct'ry. 

*  [From  the  Boston  Post,  January  17, 1842.] 
"In  the  House  of  Representatives,  on  Saturday,  the  following  petition 
was  presented  and  referred.  — 
'•To  the  Honorable  Senate  and  House  of  Represe?itatives1  assembled^ 
;  Whereas,  my  son  is  called  John  Smith,  Jr.,  and  there  are  a  number 
of  persons  in  town  who  bear  the  same  name,  which  makes  it  quite  incon- 
venient.    Therefore,  I  would  pray  that  your  Honorable  Body  would  suffer 
him  to  take  the  name  of  John  Wesley  Smith,  instead  of  John  Smith,  Jr. ; 
and  as  in  duty  bound  will  ever  pray,  John  Smith.'  " 


(  287  ) 

More  than  all  —  and  here's  the  evil  — 
Hath  a  strapping  son,  as  civil 
Likely  well-to-do  a  lad, 
A?  should  make  a  father  glad. 
By  ill  luck,  lie's  John  Smith,  too; 
" Junior"  tacked  on,  it  is  true. 
Yet  that  does  not  greatly  help  it, 
Every  puppy  tries  to  yelp  it. 
John  Smith  Juniors  hourly  greet 
John  Smith  Juniors  in  the  street. 
Your  petitioner's  heart  is  breaking  — 
He 's  a  father  !  —  and  a  taking 
Awful  bad  the  Ma'am  is  in ; 
Not  to  help  her  would  be  sin. 
Please  your  Body,  deuce  is  in't, 
That  his  name  in  daily  print 
Showeth  to  disparagement ; 
All  conceivable  ill  brewing, 
Every  sort  of  mischief  doing. 
John  Smith  now  in  county  prison, 
Now  a  Jack  upon  the  mizen, 
Bachelor  to-day,  —  to-morrow 
With  nine  children,  to  his  sorrow. 
All  professions,  every  trade 
Claiming  still  his  ready  aid. 
At  a  stall,  quack  nostrums  vending, 
Flaws  in  musty  parchments  mending, 
Holding  forth  with  pulpit  thump, 
Caucusing  on  western  stump, 
Drawing  phrenologic  chart. 
Meekly  driving  drayman's  cart, 
Writing  novels,  like  Sir  Walter, 
Candidate  for  gallows-halter, 


(288) 

Jockey,  betting  on  his  nag, 
Deacon,  handing  round  the  bagf 
Quoted  for  connubial  bliss, 
Snatching  the  forbidden  kiss, 
Pattern  to  all  married  life, 
Choking  nigh  to  death  his  wife, 
Never  known  to  mingle  drink, 
Picked  up  drunk  from  kennel-sink, 
Peace  between  his  neighbors  making, 
Caged  for  brawls  and  window-breaking, 
Charitable,  very,  —  cursed 
Of  all  misers  as  the  worst, 
Of  the  women  dreadful  'fraid  is, 
Rude  and  saucy  to  the  ladies, 
Published,  shortly  to  be  wed, 
Solemnly  announced  as  dead, 
All  too  young  his  teens  to  fill, 
Sole  survivor  Bunker  Hill. 
Time  would  fail  to  tell  your  worships, 
Barns  do  n't  burn  in  quiet,  nor  ships 
"Well  insured  go  down  at  sea, 
Theft  or  suicide,  but  he 
Has  a  finger  in  the  pie ;  — 
Every  Charley  tips  the  sly 
Wink,  as  if  forsooth  to  say 
"  We  have  met  before  to-day  ; " 
Every  loafer  claims  acquaintance, 
Every  pauper  asks  a  maint'nance. 
Your  petitioner,  to  his  shame,  must 
Still  be  greeted  by  this  name,  cursed ; 
But,  kind  legislators !  spare 
John  Smith  Senior's  son  and  heir. 


(289) 

Let  it  please  the  General  Court, 
That  his  boy  may  'scape  sucb  sport, 
By  the  adding  of  a  letter,  — 
Or  a  middle  would  be  better, 
If  a  name  of  goodly  sound, 
Filling  up,  complete  and  round. 
Any  one  that 's  serious,  proper, 
That  to  witlings  may  be  stopper. 
And,  as  your  petitioner  "  Wesley  " 
Has  been  reading  lately,  bless  ye  — 
Why  not  call  him  Wesley  ?  John 
Wesley  Smith  ?  —  and  father,  son, 
And  all  the  little  Smiths  will  pray 
Ye  may  flourish  many  a  day, 
In  virtues,  honors,  pleasures,  health  — 
God  save  the  Commonwealth ! 

John  Smith. 


THAT   SAD   SECOND   CHILDHOOD. 

Childhood,  its  little  grief 
May  on  a  mother's  breast 

Repose,  and  find  relief — 

Where  childish  cares  have  rest. 

But  what  for  Age  remains  ? 

Age  —  with  neglect  and  gloom ! 
Where  may  it  hide  its  pains, 

But  in  the  friendly  tomb ! 


25 


(290) 


THEY  SAY  THE   GOBLET  'S   CROWNED   WITH  FLOWERS. 

They  say  the  goblet 's  crowned  with  flowers, 

And  round  its  brim  do  brightly  shine, 
Like  gems,  remembered  joys  and  hours, 

The  treasures  of  immortal  wine ;  — 
We  know  the  cup  is  wreathed  with  plants 

More  deadly  than  the  Upas  tree; 
Its  richest  recollection  haunts 

The  soul  with  all  that 's  misery. 

They  say  the  wine  has  potent  spell 

To  wean  the  thought  from  ills  away, 
And  raise  the  drooping  one  to  dwell 

Where  dreamy  night  is  changed  to  day;  — 
We  deem  the  wretch  may  never  know 

The  meaning  of  unmixed  despair, 
Till,  tempted  by  his  direst  foe, 

He  seeks  the  cup,  and  finds  it  there. 

Some  vow,  in  unextinguished  hate, 

With  Alcohol  no  terms  to  hold ;  — 
"  From  all  that  can  intoxicate  !  " 

We  write  upon  our  banner's  fold ;  — 
For  wre,  the  sorts,  have  marshaled  strong 

On  fields  that  wear  our  fathers'  name; 
Their  glorious  dust  gives  back  the  song 

Once  more,  of  freedom  and  of  fame. 

Nor  marches  in  our  ranks  the  slave, 

That  dares  his  heritage  to  stain ; 
Not  one  to  clank  above  the  grave 

Of  tyranny,  a  sensual  chain. 


(291) 

Ob,  no  !  —  did  round  it  pleasant  flowers 
Of  wooing  tints  and  fragrance  twine, 

We  are  the  free,  and  't  is  not  ours 
In  bonds  to  tarry  at  the  wine. 


SONG   OF   THE   DELIVERED. 


Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  we  've  burst  the  chain  — 

O  God  !  how  long  it  bound  us  ! 
We  run  !  we  leap !  0  God,  again 

Thy  light  thy  air  surround  us. 
From  midnight's  dungeon-depths  brought  out, 

We  hail  Hope's  rising  star ; 
Ho,  comrades !  give  the  hearty  shout, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah !  hurrah ! 


The  world  has  kissed  the  tyrant's  throne,  — 

The  Beast !  the  Man  of  Sin  ! 
"  Legion  !  "  "  Apollyon  !  "  *  better  known 

As  Brandy,  Beer,  or  Gin ! 
Housed  up  at  Reason's  clarion  cry, 

We  go  to  holy  war, 
To  slay  the  dragon,  or  to  die ! 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah! 


*  The  title,  Apollyon,  Abaddon,  the  destroyer,  the  name  ascribed  to  the 
angel  of  the  abyss,  king  and  head  of  the  apocalyptic  locusts,  may  well  be 
applied  to  Prince  Alcohol,  emphatically  "  The  Destroyer." 


(292) 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  there 's  joy  within, 

Where  all  before  was  woe ; 
And  sunk  is  Passion's  dreadful  din, 

And  crushed  for  aye 's  the  foe. 
Yet  one  charge  more  in  glorious  strife, 

Stout  hearts !  to  end  the  war ; 
'T  is  done  —  and  saved  are  babes  and  wife ; 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah! 


Debased  by  drink,  we  'd  lost  the  sign 

Of  manhood,  God  impressed  — 
The  open  face,  the  look  divine  — 

To  show  what  He  had  blest. 
Behold !  erect !  with  honest  brow, 

Restored  to  Nature's  law  — 
We  're  men  !  we  're  men  !  heaven  knows  us  now  ; 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah! 

Of  ten,  all  cleansed,  did  one  return 

To  bless  the  healing  hour  ? 
All  of  our  rescued  thousands  burn 

To  praise  redeeming  power. 
Come !  bless  God  now  !  and  what  for  us 

He 's  done  —  so  reads  the  law  — 
We  'll  do  for  others,  and  the  curse 

Root  out  —  hurrah  !  hurrah ! 


Tom  Moore  may  drug  the  golden  cup 
With  costly  pearls,  that  shine 

Bright  as  his  face,  and  drink  them  up 
Dissolved  in  rosy  wine ; 


0 

(293) 

In  undiluted  streams  we  dip 

Our  crystal  glasses  —  nor 
Refuse  the  pledge  will  Woman's  lip  — 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  we  Ye  burst  the  chain ; 

0  God !  how  long  it  bound  us ! 
We  run  !  we  leap !  0  God,  again 

Thy  light,  thy  air  surround  us. 
From  midnight's  dungeon-depths  brought  out, 

We  hail  hope's  rising  star  ; 
Ho,  comrades !  give  the  hearty  shout, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah ! 


WE'VE   HEARD  THAT   ROUXD   THE   WINE-CUP'S  BRIM. 

We  've  heard  that  round  the  wine-cup's  brim 

A  thousand  pleasures  stray, 
And  that  strong  drink  has  wondrous  power 

To  drive  dull  care  away ;  — 
But  we  have  seen  the  flashing  light 

Which  from  the  goblet  came, 
Lead,  like  the  meteor,  on  to  tears, 

And  wretchedness,  and  shame. 

We  've  heard  that  though  't  is  well  enough 

For  men  the  pledge  to  sign, 
Yet  youth  need  never  be  in  haste 

Their  freedom  to  resign  ;  — 

25* 


(294) 

But  we  are  sure  ill  habits  formed 

In  youth,  destroy  the  man ; 
And  we  '11  secure  us  from  the  snare 

Thus  woven,  if  we  can. 

Ay,  let  him  boast  of  freedom,  who 

To  appetite 's  a  slave, 
And  in  that  war  for  poverty 

And  ruin,  is  so  brave  ! 
'T  will  serve  his  comrades,  who,  like  him, 

Are  fettered  by  the  curse  ; 
But  coaxing,  fooling,  will  not  do 

For  Temperance  Boys  like  us ! 

The  children  in  Chaldea's  court, 

Who  would  not  drink  the  wine, 
Not  only  fair  in  flesh  were  seen, 

But  wisdom  had,  divine. 
Like  them,  we  choose  the  generous  draught, 

God's  cool  sweet  springs  supply ; 
And  at  the  last,  those  streams,  of  which 

Who  drink,  shall  never  die. 


OF   OLD,   ANACBEON  WOKE  THE   SONG. 

Of  old,  Anacreon  woke  the  song 
In  praise  of  wine ;  the  joyous  throng 
He  led,  and  with  seducing  strain 
Allured,  they  drank  and  drank  again. 


(  295) 

His  lyre  to  witching  measure  strung, 
The  poet  thus  of  pleasure  sung: 
"  Within  this  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 
I  cradle  all  my  woes  to  sleep." 

In  latter  days,  the  Teian's  theme 

Was  still  the  same  —  the  drunkard's  dream, 

The  drunkard's  waking  thought's  employ, 

Was  still  to  catch  the  flying  joy ; 

In  social  mirth,  in  secret  hour, 

He  owned  the  tempter's  subtle  power, 

And  in  the  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 

Would  fain  have  cradled  Care  to  sleep. 

Yet  praise  we  give  !  —  it  could  not  last ; 
The  red  wine's  tyranny  is  past ; 
No  more  the  soul  of  sensual  song 
"  Expires  the  silver  harp  along ;  " 
Exalted  man  shakes  off,  at  length, 
The  sordid  sin,  and  rallies  strength; 
For  in  the  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 
He  sees  is  Virtue  lulled  to  sleep. 

With  more  than  Bacchanalian  zest 

Our  lip  the  healthful  cup  hath  pressed ; 

The  chrysolite  itself  is  dim 

To  waters  sparkling  on  its  brim ; 

No  ruined  joys  are  here,  no  child 

Of  beggary,  no  mother  wild. 

Such  woes  this  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 

Has  cradled  to  eternal  sleep. 


(296) 


THE   QUAKERESS. 

"  Every  Quakeress  is  a  lily." 

City  of  Penn !  thy  streets 
Right-angled,  marble  banks,  mint,  heaving  domes, 
And  water-works,  and  Schuylkill,  yielding  sweets, 

And  pleasant  homes, 

And  sober  denizens, 
I  love.  —  Thy  merchants,  lawyers,  reckoned  wise  — 
And,  more  than  all,  thy  beauteous  citizens 

Who  own  bright  eyes, 

I  love ;  —  confessedly 
As  fair  as  any  famous  Broadway  boasts, 
Or  belles  of  Washington,  though  fair  they  be, 

Or  Boston  toasts. 

As  stately  Junos,  seem 
Thy  queenly  women,  who,  on  Chestnut  street, 
Display,  like  flitting  visions  of  a  dream, 

Their  pretty  feet. 

How  charming  the  array 
They  make,  when  the  tired  wing  of  evening  droops ! 
How  dazzling !  when,  in  face  of  envious  day, 

They  pass  in  troops. 

Loveliest  of  short  or  tall, 
And  most  bewitching  in  her  modest  dress, 
Is  she,  who  wins  all  hearts,  above  them  all  — 

The  Quakeress. 


(  297  ) 

When  almost  blinded 
By  gorgeous  beauty,  on  the  promenade, 
How  soothing  't  is  to  meet  —  hast  thou  not  minded  ?  — 

A  Quaker  maid, 

In  her  becoming  dress, 
With  bonnet,  or  of  drab,  or  purest  white ; 
Fragrant  as  lily  of  the  wilderness, 

As  sweet  to  sight. 

A  company  of  such 
I  've  seen  in  spring-time,  where  thy  Arch  street  runs, 
Gathering  to  meeting.     They  resembled  much 

The  Shining  Ones 

Glittering  along  the  way 
In  crowds :  —  This  simile  is  borrowed,  I 
Would  rather  liken  them  to  flowers  in  May, 

Early  and  shy. 

The  Quakeress  is  fair, 
And  all  adorned  in  her  simplicity ; 
Candid  as  Heaven  made  her,  every  where 

Lovely  to  me. 

And  yet  her  proper  throne 
Is  home ;  —  there  shines  the  Quakeress. 
Good  sense,  good  humor,  kindness,  all  her  own, 

Are  there  to  bless. 

Oh,  were  her  guileless  speech, 
And  open  artlessness,  but  copied,  then 
Would  other  towns,  like  thee,  bland  lessons  teach, 

City  of  Penn  ! 


(298) 


RAIN!  RAIN! 

Rain  !  Rain  !  from  out  thy  clouds, 

O  God  of  Nature  pour ; 
Refresh  the  panting  earth 

With  thy  abundant  store ; 
For  thy  death-angel  spreads  his  wings* 
Of  withering,  o'er  our  lakes  and  springs. 

Rain  !  Rain !  the  cracking  ground 

Sends  columns  forth  of  heat ; 
'T  is  yellow  brass  above, 

'T  is  dust  beneath  our  feet. 
The  tasselled  corn  hangs  down  its  head, 
The  bearded  rye  and  wheat  are  dead. 

Rain  !  Rain  !  or  life  will  fail ; 

Fast  fails  its  only  staff; 
Turn  not  our  wells  to  rocks, 

Turn  not  our  bread  to  chaff. 
Let  not  our  poor,  unnoticed,  cry  ; 
Let  not  our  children,  famished,  die. 

Pray  on  !  —  the  pregnant  cloud 

Lies  ready  in  God's  fist, 
And  prayer  can  force  it  out, 

And  empty  't  as  ye  list. 
Ye  've  prayed  ?  —  to  prayer  !  to  prayer !  again  ; 
So  may  He  give  the  gracious  Rain. 


(299) 


THE  PLAGUE. 

"  The  Plague !  the  Plague  !  bring  out  your  dead ! " 
Through  all  our  land  the  cry 
Rang  shrilly  forth.     "  We  bring  our  dead !  " 
Was  murmured  in  reply. 

"  The  Plague  ! "  more  fierce  than  that  which  sweeps 
The  Orient  with  power, 
Where  Death,  the  busy  toiler,  reaps 
A  province  in  an  hour. 

And  still  no  art  could  stay  the  sore ; 

By  night  and  day  it  ran ; 
Till  written  on  our  nation's  door 

Was  "  Lazarett  of  Man." 

To  touch  and  taste,  to  taste  and  die, 

And  fill  the  drunkard's  grave, 
Her  thousands  dared,  till  from  the  sky 

Came  Abstinence  to  save. 

Now  we  are  healed  !  yet  at  the  pool 

Lie  many  in  their  sin, 
The  moderate  mad,  the  ruined  fool,  — 

No  angel  puts  them  in. 

Ay,  angel  Temperance  never  tires, 

But  healing  wing  doth  plume, 
Where  soaring  faith  itself  expires, 

And  hope  is  in  the  tomb. 


(300) 

Shout,  Drunkard  !  shout !  your  chain  of  steel 

Is  sundered,  link  by  link ; 
Shout,  Maker  !  Vender  !  you  can  feel ; 

Shout,  Children  !  you  may  think. 

And  Woman,  in  whose  halcyon  breast 

The  star  of  hope  doth  shine, 
Would  shout  —  but  tears  reveal  the  rest  — 

Lord  God  !  the  work  is  thine. 


THE  OLD  TOMB. 

One  day  in  merry  June,  I,  then  a  lad, 

Strolled  forth  with  a  companion  —  one  who  had 

Strange  curiosity,  that  often  led 

His  footsteps  to  the  mansions  of  the  dead ; 

And  he  the  way  directed  thither.     Soon 

"We  stumbled  on  the  grave-stones,  that  in  noon 

Glared  scorchingly.     Anon,  along  the  grass 

In  thoughtlessness  we  passed  and  did  repass,  — 

Reading  quaint  rhymes ;  and  frequently  we  knelt, 

Closely  to  search  how  epitaphs  were  spelt, 

Trying  in  cherub's  stony  face  to  scan 

Some  likeness,  or  of  angel  or  of  man. 

Till,  presently,  we  chanced  upon  a  tomb, 

Whose  rusty  bolt  had  been  forced  backward,  —  room 

Wanted  for  some  new  tenant.  —  Cheerful  day 

Looked  on  its  sullen  chamber ;  sunbeams  lay, 


(301) 

Unwonted,  on  the  floor,  and  glanced  along 
On  coffins,  ranged  in  undistinguished  throng. 
I  was  a  dreamer,  then,  about  all  things 
Connected  with  the  dead ;  the  secret  springs 
That  move  imagination,  I  nor  knew 
Nor  cared  about ;  but  as  religion,  true, 
Held  all  the  stories  which  do  appertain 
To  spirit-worlds,  nor  had  such  learned  in  vain; 
And  therefore,  tremblingly,  I  stole  a  glance 
At  the  dread  cavern's  secrets.     Not  so  he, 
My  comrade,  who  with  jesting,  carelessly 
Groped  down  the  steps,  and  rudely  raised  a  lid, 
That  from  the  eye  Decay's  sad  doings  hid. 

I  never  may  forget  what  then  I  saw  ! 
Years  have  passed  since,  but,  true  to  memory's  law, 
That  spectacle  is  fresh  to  memory  now, 
As  when  I  bent  o'er  that  sepulchre's  brow. 
I  see  her  still !  how  painfully  !  —  a  woman,  young 
She  seemed,  who  lay  there.     As  if  she  had  flung 
But  lately,  her  tired  limbs  upon  that  bed  — 
Pressing  its  pillow,  easily,  her  head 
Did  seem  reclining.     Yet  methought  sweet  sleep 
It  was  not  —  but  a  stern  repose,  more  deep, 
That  knew  not,  though  the  hungry  reptile  left 
His  slime  upon  her  cheeks.     Ay,  when  he  reft 
His  horrid  meal  from  lips  that  chid  him  not ! 
Suffice  it  that  I,  shuddering,  left  the  spot, 
With  thoughts  which  time  has  but  confirmed,  that  we 
Should  render  all  due  rites  that  Decency, 
Love  and  Religion  ask,  to  those  who  die ; 
But  never,  the  Tomb's  mysteries  to  descry, 
Should  we  with  curiosity  explore 

26 


=o 


(302) 

The  place  of  the  departed.     Buried,  then, 

Oh,  let  their  dust  be  sacred  from  the  ken 

Of  human  eye  !     Not  tomb  of  Pere-la-Chaise, 

Mount  Auburn,  Laurel  Hill,  with  sculpture  gay, 

Or  gayer  flowers,  to  me  hath  any  charm  ;  — 

JT  is  but  a  tomb.      Give  me,  for  slumber,  calm, 

The  quiet  grave,  where  dust,  once  hid,  may  lie 

Secure  from  vulgar  handling ;  where  the  eye 

Of  love  is  satisfied,  if  on  the  sod 

It  rests,  of  him  whose  spirit  is  with  God. 


"AM  I  MY  BROTHER'S   KEEPER?" 

By  awful  influence,  only  lent 

To  raise  and  bless  thy  fellow  creature, 
The  power  for  good  or  ill  intent 

That  shapes  the  soul's  eternal  feature,  — 

Yes! 

By  day's  out-clamors  of  distress, 
Sorrows  that  nightly  walk  the  city, 

Mutations,  strange,  heart-wrecks  that  press 
Their  silent  siege  upon  thy  pity,  — 

Yes! 

By  Childhood's  garden  run  to  weeds, 

Blank  Mind  that  never  knowledge  tasted, 

Soil  where  the  foe  hath  scattered  seeds, 
Strong  Intellect  deceived  and  wasted,  — 

Yes! 


22 


(303) 

By  Vice  that  boldly  storms  thy  door, 
By  secret  Guilt,  escaping  sentence, 

By  that  lost  youth  who  'd  sin  no  more 

Did  word  of  thine  but  hint  "  repentance,"  — 

Yes! 

By  Innocence  betrayed,  by  damned 
Illusions  at  the  drunkard's  revels,  — 

All  devils  round  him,  known  or  shammed, 
Himself,  poor  wretch  !  the  prince  of  devils,  • 

Yes! 

By  our  three  millions,  lifting  chains 

In  sight  of  Lust  and  Knavery, 
That  soul  and  body  coin  for  gains 

In  the  hell-mint  of  Slavery,  — 

.Yes! 

By  Orient  Mind  that  never  thinks, 

Starting,  at  length,  from  bands  of  Error, 

Closer  to  hug  the  dreadful  links, 

Or  vainly  battle  with  their  terror,  — 

Yes! 

By  moral  darkness  wrapping  still 

The  Occident,  from  Plymouth's  portals 

To  Prairie-climes,  where  giant  ^Vill 
Is  blessing,  cursing  vast  immortals,  — 

Yes! 


(304) 


AMERICAN  SLAVERY. 

Lift  ye  my  country's  banner  high, 
And  fling  abroad  its  gorgeous  sheen ; 

Unroll  its  stripes  upon  the  sky. 
And  let  its  lovely  stars  be  seen. 

Blood,  blood,  is  on  its  spangled  fold, 
Yet  from  the  battle  comes  it  not ; 

God !  all  the  seas  thy  channels  hold, 
Can  ne'er  wash  out  the  guilty  spot. 

Those  glorious  stars  and  stripes,  that  led 

Our  lion-hearted  fathers  on, 
Vailed  only  to  the  honored  dead  — 

Beaming  where  fields  and  fame  were  won  ■ 

Those  symbols  that  to  kings  could  tell 
Our  young  republic's  rising  fame, 

And  speak  to  falling  realms  the  knell 
Of  glory  past,  of  future  shame  — 

Dishonored  shall  they  be  by  hands 
On  which  a  sacrament  doth  lie  ? 

The  light  that  heralded  to  lands 
Immortal  glory  —  must  it  die  ? 

No  !  let  the  earthquake-utterance  be 

From  thousand  swelling  hearts  — not  so  ! 

And  let  one  voice  from  land  and  sea, 
Return  indignant  answer  —  no  ! 


(  305) 

Up,  then !  determine,  dare  and  do, 

What  justice  claims,  what  freemen  may ; 

What  Heaven,  my  country,  asks  of  you, 
While  yet  its  muttering  thunders  stay ; 

That  thou  forever  from  this  soil 

Bid  Slavery''^  withering  blight  depart ; 

And  to  the  wretch  restore  the  spoil,  — 
Though  thou  may'st  not  the  broken  heart. 

That  thou  thy  brother  from  the  dust 
Lift  up,  and  speak  his  spirit  ^/ree/ 

That  millions  whom  thy  crime  hath  curst, 
May  blessings  plead  on  thine  and  thee. 

Then  to  the  universe  wide  spread 
Thy  glorious  stars,  without  a  stain ; 

Bend  from  your  skies,  illustrious  Dead ! 
The  world  ye  won  is  free  again. 


MOUNT  AUBURN 

I  trod  the  walks  and  velvet  green 

That  carpet  Auburn's  place  of  tombs, 
And  vainly  sought  —  they  were  not  seen  — 

For  burial  damps  and  gathered  glooms. 
But  in  their  stead  the  voice  of  bird 

And  insects'  hum  and  south  wind's  breath, 
And  babbling  brook  my  spirit  stirred 

To  thoughts  that  tarry  not  with  Death. 

26* 


(306) 

'Tis  surely  sweet  to  linger  thus 

In  hidden  dell  and  fairy  grove, 
That  seem  unconscious  of  the  curse, 

That  show  Earth  still  has  much  to  love. 
Yet  as  I  gaze  on  chiseled  stone 

And  gorgeous  marble,  rich  and  rare, 
Admiring  Art,  I  feel  alone,  — 

I  deem  not  that  the  Dead  are  there. 

It  seems  not  that  the  early  lost 

Are  shut  up  in  these  lovely  hills ; 
That  he,  on  life  once  rudely  tost, 

Is  calmly  resting  by  these  rills. 
From  scenes  enchanting  as  are  these, 

Thought  winged  with  pleasure  gaily  springs, 
Yet  wrapt  in  what  Time  has  to  please, 

It  mounts  not  to  eternal  things. 

I  love  the  taste  and  pious  skill 

That  decorate  this  place  of  rest, 
So  delicate,  so  charming  —  still 

I  love  the  village  church-yard  best. 
For  as  I  watch  its  simple  flowers 

That  bloom  without  the  gardener's  care 
On  graves  that  lie  to  sun  and  showers  — 

I  feel,  I  feel  the  Dead  are  there. 


6= 


(307) 


WASHINGTON'S  FREEDMEN. 

"  Seeing  some  colored  men  at  work,  leveling  and  turfing  the  ground 
about  the  sepulchre,  which  had  the  appearance  of  neglect  and  decay,  I 
wa9  induced,  by  the  deep  interest  with  which  they  labored,  to  inquire 
whether  they  were  slaves  of  the  family.  'No,'  said  they,  'we  are  Gen- 
eral Washington's  servants ;  survivors  of  those  whom  he  set  free  at  his 
death ;  and  we  have  come,  as  volunteers,  to  improve  the  grounds  near  his 
tomb,  as  a  testimony  of  our  love  and  gratitude.'  The  National  Monu- 
ment Society,  which  proposed,  years  ago,  to  build  the  monument  of  Wash- 
ington, by  subscriptions  from  American  citizens,  confined  the  privilege  of 
subscribing  to  white  citizens  ;  and  these  freedmen  could  not  be  allowed  to 
aid  in  the  work !  " 

We  garnish  the  grave  of  the  Chief — 

Good  men  will  not  deem  it  the  worse 
That  such  testimonial  of  grief 

Is  gratefully  rendered  by  us ; 
For  who  may  restore  this  sad  wreck, 

But  the  cleansed  from  Humanity's  stain  ? 
What  hands  should  his  sepulchre  deck, 

But  those  that  he  freed  from  the  chain  ? 

Toil,  brothers  !  —  the  ringdove  has  nest 

In  the  quiet  and  cool  of  this  shade ; 
To  tarry,  she  knows  herself  blest, 

Where  excellence  lowly  is  laid. 
The  small  birds  have  liberty  here, 

On  this  mountain  to  build  as  they  list ; 
And  ranges  the  beautiful  deer 

Where  its  base  by  Potomac  is  kissed. 

Prune,  brothers  !  these  cedars,  that  bend 

In  negligence  over  his  tomb ; 
Teach,  brothers !  these  flowers  to  lend 

New  beauties  and  richer  perfume. 


o= 


(308  ) 

Let  us  trim  the  luxuriant  grass, 

Which  carpets  the  place  of  his  dust, 

That  pilgrims  may  pleasantly  pass 
To  the  coveted  shrine  of  the  First. 


These  bowers,  what  thousands  have  sought ! 

These  windings,  what  thousands  shall  throng ! 
Though  ages,  what  bards  will  have  caught 

Here  afflatus  for  glorious  song ! 
Yet  this,  the  exalted  of  graves, 

Above  other  sepulchres  crowned, 
Is  seen  in  the  precincts  of  slaves  — 

In  the  strong  hold  of  bondage  is  found ! 


The  rich  for  his  pile  will  bestow, 

Whose  glory  makes  diadems  dim ; 
Yet  we  may  not  do  it,  although 

Our  love  flows  as  warmly  for  him. 
Will  he  look  down  from  heaven,  to  smile 

On  marble  that 's  heaped  o'er  his  grave 
By  men  that  would  honor  him,  while 

They  make  of  their  fellow  a  slave  ? 


The  stones  of  the  quarry  would  cry 

To  the  rock  upon  which  it  was  built; 
And  the  Just,  who  has  noticed  the  sigh 

Of  the  captive,  would  visit  their  guilt. 
A  monument  reared  up  by  such, 

His  frowning  memorial  would  be 
Of  righteous  displeasure,  who  much 

Desireth  the  bond  to  be  free. 


(309) 

'T  would  stand  to  the  nations  a  mark 

Keproaching  eternally  those 
Who  prate  about  Liberty's  spark. 

And  yet  to  its  kindlings  are  foes. 
A  terrible  record  of  Truth  — 

'T  would  point,  as  with  finger  of  flame ; 
And  its  characters,  blazing  his  worth, 

Would  light  down  to  ages  their  shame ! 

But  no !  they  may  chisel  the  stones, 

And  for  its  foundations  dig  deep, 
That  centuries  may  pause  where  the  bones 

Of  the  world's  only  patriot  sleep ; 
They  may  do  it  —  but  never  shall  rise 

Such  fruit  of  hypocrisy's  toil ; 
His  monument  greets  not  the  skies, 

Till  slavery  is  swept  from  our  soil ! 

The  millions  for  Cecrops  that  toiled, 

And  sank  on  the  marshes  of  Nile, 
In  their  folly,  stupendous,  were  foiled; 

Though  carved  they  Eternity's  pile. 
The  millions  that  rear  up  this  hour, 

Our  citadel,  build  not  in  vain  ;  — 
'T  is  rising !  and  proudly  will  tower, 

When  pyramids  litter  the  plain. 

Toil,  brothers,  to  garnish  the  spot 

Of  Freedom's,  of  Washington's  sleep ; 

Where  Virtue  may  ponder,  but  not 
Where  Crime  may  in  mockery  weep. 


(310) 

The  labor  we  freely  bestow, 

To  purchase,  too  poor  were  a  throne ; 
And  to  him  that  has  left  us,  we  know 

'T  is  sweet  —  for  't  is  Gratitude's  own. 


THE  COPARTNERSHIP  RENEWED. 

Two  partners  traded  in  that  busy  town  — 

The  Bay  State's  glory.      Winged  with  fair  renown, 

Their  names  flew  wide.     The  good  old  fashioned  rule 

Contented  them,  taught  in  the  Christian  school, 

To  do  to  others  as  they  still  required 

Others  to  do  to  them.     Their  hearts  inspired 

With  charity,  they  gave  the  liberal  gold. 

Their  love  for  Jesus  and  for  souls  complete, 

They  wanderers  won  to  the  Redeemer's  fold,  — 

Sitting,  themselves,  like  children,  at  His  feet. 

Thus  years  rolled  on,  and  thus  old  age  drew  nigh, 

Without  its  Winter.     Or  to  live  or  die 

Was  Christ  or  gain  to  these  of  upward  wing, 

Whose  spirits  reveled  in  perpetual  Spring. 

The  junior  sickened  —  died  —  his  end  was  peace. 

Yet  can  the  union  of  the  righteous  cease  ? 

Scarce  four  brief  moons  had  filled  their  silver  horn 

Ere  saw  the  senior  rays  that  sweetly  dawn 

And  break  in  glory,  and  on  shores  of  bliss 

He  met  his  partner  with  an  angel's  kiss. 

Now,  to  their  myriad  gaze  who  walk  in  white, 

Shine  Homes  &  Homer  in  excess  of  light.         1845. 


(311) 


THE  SNARE. 

Illustrating  a  Picture. 

"  "Well,  now  I  have  bent  this  sapling  right ; 
*T  is  small  and  lithe,  and  1 11  soon  make  tight 
This  cord,  and  the  noose  I  '11  cunningly  fix, 
And  the  rabbit  will  find  I  'm  up  to  tricks. 
He  '11  not  be  the  first  that 's  seen  my  trap,  — 
The  spoils  of  many  are  in  my  cap ! 
'T  is  sport  —  yet  something  in  me  stings, 
When  I  think  of  the  gentle,  timid  things ; 
How  carelessly  I  've  contrived  their  death, 
As  if  I  'd  a  right  to  stop  their  breath  ! 
I  wish  I  knew  a  way  to  take 
The  varlets  alive,  for  Sally's  sake  ; 
She  often  begs  me  to  save  her  one, 
To  be  her  pet,  and  share  in  her  fun." 

Thoughtless,  and  simple,  and  happy  boy ! 

A  lesson  learn  from  thy  rural  toy. 

Others  are  busily  toiling  as  thou, 

Snares  are  artfully  woven  now ! 

The  earth,  the  air,  the  smiling  sea, 

Are  full  of  traps  and  nets  for  thee. 

Beware  of  pleasure  !  —  should'st  thou  sip, 

The  rose  from  thy  cheek,  the  dew  from  thy  lip 

Would  quickly  pass,  and  the  cruel  dart 

Of  keen  remorse  would  pierce  thy  heart. 

In  vain,  in  the  sight  of  any  bird, 

Is  the  net  prepared  —  thou  'st  seen  and  heard ! 

Oh  !  look  in  thy  youth  to  heaven  in  prayer, 

And  He  that 's  strong  will  save  from  the  Snare. 


(312) 


WILLIAM  LADD*  —  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

This  is  thy  grave.     I  'd  rather  sleep 
Thus,  with  a  guardian  God  alone, 

Than,  helmed  by  ranks  of  cowering  men, 
To  occupy  Napoleon's  throne. 

This  is  thy  grave.  Such  resting-place 
Be  mine,  wet  with  the  earnest  tear,  — 

Rather  than  heaped  with  gems  and  crowns 
The  monarch-murderer's  guilty  bier. 

This  is  thy  grave.  I  'd  choose  the  sigh 
Which  wakens  at  thy  honored  name, 

Before  the  shouts  that  thundered  round 
The  living,  lost  Napoleon's  fame. 

This  is  thy  grave.     Such  funeral  step 
I'd  choose,  for  me,  of  honest  men, 

Before  the  kingly  pomp  that  bore 
The  dead  Napoleon  home  again. 

This  is  thy  grave.  When  he 's  forgot, 
Or  only  named  as  "  Anger's  rod," 

Thou  'It  live  in  Virtue's  heraldry  — 
Thy  title,  "  Friend  of  Man  and  God." 

*  The  distinguished  Advocate  of  Peace. 


(313) 


STANZAS  TO  ENGLAND,  1846. 

Cease,  proud  Britons !  cease  your  boastings, 

Dropping  like  perpetual  rain  ; 
Threats  are  cheap,  and  endless  railing 

Is  as  foolish  as  't  is  vain. 
We  alike  your  wordy  terrors 

And  your  pity  must  refuse ;  — 
Insolence  from  haughty  nobles, 

Wit  from  Dickens'  "  Daily  News." 

That  our  sires  were  English  blooded 

Plainly  tells  our  pilgrim  stock  ; 
That  they  owned  the  Saxon  spirit 

You  may  read  on  Bunker's  rock. 
That  we  speak  with  British  accent,  — 

That  our  thoughts  like  Briton's  flow,  — 
Ask,  if  we  will  yield  to  threatening  ? 

Eighteen  millions  answer,  NO ! 

Yet  we  're  peaceful ;  —  while  the  tumults 

Of  old  Europe  hurry  on, 
Our  young  Nation  sits  contented 

With  the  boon  her  founders  won. 
And  she  's  happy  ;  —  Victory's  laurels 

With  the  olive-blossoms  meet, 
Art  and  Commerce,  Thrift  and  Labor, 

Pour  their  riches  at  her  feet. 


27 


(314) 

We  the  sweets  of  Peace  have  tasted ; 

Our  Republic's  breadth  and  length 
Know  what  influence  has  cemented 

Her  in  power  and  wealth  and  strength. 
Shall  we  squander  real  enjoyment 

For  the  misery  War  has  won  ? 
Shall  we  barter  wide-spread  Plenty 

For  the  barren  Oregon  ? 


Why  should  we  the  thousand  channels 

Force  aside  that  fill  our  cup  ? 
Why  on  Conflict's  horrid  altar 

Burn  our  dearest  treasures  up  ? 
We  have  nought  to  win  by  quarrel, 

Much  to  lose  ;  —  defeat 's  a  curse  ; 
If  we  crush  your  fleets  and  armies 

What  will  be  the  gain  to  us  ? 

Not  by  conquests  can  a  people 

Their  position  elevate  ; 
Perish  the  unworthy  notion  ! 

Perish  rivalry  and  hate  ! 
Perish  brutal  War  forever  ! 

Dovelike  Peace,  throughout  the  world 
Fly  with  healing  wings,  wherever 

Once  the  cloud  of  battle  curled ! 

While  we  smile  at  crown  and  sceptre, 
To  which  peers  and  princes  kneel, 

Men  of  England !  we  true  pity 
For  your  weeping  millions  feel. 


(315) 

"Would  we  deeper  crush  the  guiltless 
Whom  the  iron  foot  hath  trod  ? 

Would  we  lacerate  and  trample 
Bleeding  hearts  ?  —  forbid  it,  God ! 

We  would  meet  you  as  invaders ! 

Give  you  cheer  instead  of  scorn ! 
Fight  and  vanquish  Ireland's  famine 

With  our  potent  wheat  and  corn  ! 
Such  a  victory  do  we  covet 

As  would  bless  your  queenly  isle, 
And  from  John  0' Groat's  to  Land's  End 

Light  up  England  with  a  smile. 

Wait  a  little ;  study  patience ; 

Let  not  every  idle  note 
Carried  over  the  Atlantic 

Seem  a  roar  from  Battle's  throat. 
They  who  fume  and  fret  are  madmen ; 

Even  now  their  ravings  cease  ; 
Patience  !  till  our  thoughtful  Senate 

In  its  wisdom  utters  Peace. 


I  WALKED  IN  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  walked  in  Portsmouth ;  't  was  the  place 
Of  boyhood,  and  though  changed  its  face, 
Though  to  the  grave  had  journeyed  down 
The  fathers  of  that  ancient  town ; 


(316) 

Though  of  its  thousands  very  few 
Returned  my  greeting,  whom  I  knew, 
And  I  was  stranger  to  the  door, 
That  sheltered  once  my  only  store  ; 

Yet  was  it  pleasant,  and  Jt  was  sad ; 
I  sorrowed  straight,  and  straight  was  glad ; 
For  those,  who  long  had  ceased  to  be 
On  earth,  came  back  and  walked  with  me. 

They  looked  the  same  ;  and  yet  they  seemed 
More  spiritual — as  I  have  dreamed 
Angels  may  seem ;  and  in  their  eyes 
Was  something  of  the  starry  skies. 

They  smiled  on  me  ;  but  sadly  smiled ; 
As  pitying  the  imprisoned  child 
Yet  doomed  for  heavy  days  to  groan, 
In  folly's  desert  left  alone. 

I  knew  them !  —  one  of  matron  grace  ; 
One  had  sweet  girlhood  in  her  face ; 
Heirs  of  perennial  beauty,  they 
Gained  when  earth's  beauty  passed  away. 

And  one  was  there  of  reverend  mien, 
Our  pastor,  when  with  mortals  seen ; 
Another  —  my  dull  heart  waxed  warm, 
I  strove  to  clasp  my  father's  form. 

I  strove  to  ask  him,  why  these  years 
He  'd  left  me  to  my  weary  tears ; 
"  0  father,  I  've  had  need  of  thee, 
I  Ve  missed  a  hand  to  strengthen  me." 


=6 


(317) 

Wings  sparkled  —  they  were  gone  —  the  air 
Grew  redolent ;  't  was  fragrance  there. 
The  gales  of  Beulah  sighed  along, 
And  breathed  aroma  in  their  song. 

I  may  not  say  what  string  was  swept ; 
'T  was  tenderness,  't  was  love  —  I  wept 
To  join  them.     0  my  soul,  how  blest 
To  fly  away  and  be  at  rest ! 

The  memory  of  the  righteous  lives ; 
Their  name  perpetual  odor  gives  ; 
They  're  here  —  and  heaven  about  is  spread, 
When  with  us  are  the  precious  Dead. 


THE  IVORY  CRUCIFIX.2 

I  thought  not  of  the  inspiration  lent 

To  cunning  hand  and  head,  the  toil  achieving ; 

The  pious  heart,  its  mission  well  believing, 

O'er  which,  for  years,  the  Solitary  bent, 

That  mission  to  fulfil  his  one  intent ; 

Nor  of  the  skill,  nor  impudent  unpriced 

Triumphant  boldness,  thus  to  chisel  Christ ! 

Looking  —  my  troubled,  weeping  soul  outwent 

To  seek  her  Lord ;  and  from  the  Jewish  hill 

Upspringing  to  the  right  hand  of  the  throne, 

Saw  where  that  drooping  Head  with  stars  was  crowned ; 

Saw  where  that  mocked  One  in  His  glory  shone; 

And,  gazing  up  in  those  dear  eyes,  she  found 

Unutterable  love  !  —  solemn  her  joy,  and  still. 

27* 


(318) 


OPIUM  SHIPS  FOR  CHINA. 

Ay,  flap  jour  wings,  ill-omened  birds, 

Impatient  for  your  prey ; 
Infest  in  swarms  the  Chinese  seas, 

For  who  shall  utter  <;  Nay ! " 
Watch  for  the  moment  to  inflict 
Foul  wrong,  in  spite  of  interdict. 

What  though  your  fearful  errand 's  fraught 
With  death,  death  which  is  hell — 

And  by  the  traffic  Mercy  bleeds, 
Flock  on,  for  all  is  well ; 

The  end  shall  justify  the  means  — 

Your  trade  is  nursed  by  kings  and  queens. 

Through  all  her  unoffending  realm 
The  ripened  plague-spot  bear, 

Till  China  is  one  lazar-house 
Of  misery  and  despair. 

Let  Avarice  urge  your  flowing  sails, 

Let  Selfishness  bestow  the  scales. 


The  Upas  flings  its  poison  forth,  — 

In  this  resembling  ye  ; 
And  woe  to  bird  or  beast  or  man, 

That  sees  the  fatal  tree. 
The  Upas  to  one  spot 's  confined, 
Ye  carry  death  on  every  wind. 


(  319  ) 

And  laugh,  ye  men,  as  their  vile  chain 

Your  idiot  victims  hug  ; 
And  mock,  as  they  suck  endless  pain 

From  your  forbidden  drug. 
What 's  law  to  him  who  wins  the  goal  ? 
Compared  to  money,  what 's  the  soul  ? 

Ye  may,  ye  may,  for  Christians  choose 

That  deed  to  fill  the  purse, 
Which  "  scoundrel  pagans  "  would  refuse 

With  scorn  to  do  to  us. 
Yet  pause,  beware,  and  fear  the  rod,  — 
Though  conscience  sleeps,  there  wakes  a  God ! 

1839. 


FOR  MOBILE. 
After  the  great  Fire  of  1839. 

Boston  !  that  sittest  in  thy  pride, 

A  very  queen  — 
Whose  arms  to  the  afflicted,  wide 

Open  are  seen  — 
Who  never,  on  thy  noble  throne, 

By  Commerce  built, 
Didst  close  thy  ears  to  Misery's  moan, 

And  never  wilt ;  — 
Where  art  thou,  while  the  dreadful  cries 

Of  houseless  hundreds  ring? 
Where  art  thou,  while  the  bitter  sighs 

The  Southern  breezes  bring, 


(320) 

Of  those  who  draw  the  panting  breath, 

Whose  home,  the  flames 
Have  swept  away,  whose  bodies,  Death 

Eagerly  claims? 

Hast  thou  not  heard  that  yonder  Mart, 

Whose  thousand  ships 
Find  mighty  Trade's  remotest  heart, 

Wherever  dips 
The  needle,  hath  the  element 

Laid  waste  ? 
That  Death  hath  noonday  arrows  spent, 

With  fearful  haste, 
Among  her  proudest,  loveliest  ?  — 

On  his  pale  steed 
How  sat  the  rider  !     Now  do  rest 

Where  worms  shall  feed, 
Her  children,  on  whom  yester's  sun 

Did  gaily  shine  — 
To  pleasure,  love,  and  life's  joys  won, 

Freely  as  thine ! 

Think  !  —  they  are  of  thy  flesh  and  bone, 

Blood  of  thy  blood  ; 
They  kneel  with  thee  at  Freedom's  throne, 

They  worship  God ; 
Thy  wandering  sons  and  daughters  they, 

With  generous  heat 
For  their  loved  mother  in  the  North,  away, 

Their  pulses  beat ; 
And  never  would  their  hearts  be  lapped 

In  selfish  ease, 
Did  Fire  thy  fair  possessions  wrap, 

Thy  sons,  Disease. 


(321) 

By  dear  humanity's  sweet  claim, 

By  pity's  gem  — 
By  pride,  ambition,  yes,  by  shame, 

Look  thou  to  them ! 


A  THOUSAND  MILES  IN  A  THOUSAND  HOURS. 


A  young  man  in  Cambridge  lately  undertook,  for  a  wager,  to  walk 
one  thousand  miles  in  one  thousand  consecutive  hours,  and  accomplished 
the  feat. 


He  chose  the  spot,  the  ground  surveyed, 

And  carefully  the  place 
Examined,  where  he  might  with  Time 

Contend  in  equal  race. 

He  trained  his  body  to  the  task  ; 

To  this  his  mind  he  schooled : 
For  one  absorbing  object,  he 

All  other  objects  ruled. 

Sense,  will,  affection,  end  and  aim, 

On  this  alone  were  fixed  ; 
With  this  great  purpose  of  the  heart 

"Was  every  purpose  mixed. 

He  cast  aside  each  clogging  weight  — 
Was  odds  with  cumbering  care ; 

Encouraged  hope,  and  looked  on  fear 
Of  failure  as  a  snare. 


=<ni 


(322) 

Behold  him  on  his  cheerful  way ! 

Like  needle  to  the  pole 
He  steadily  pursues  the  path 

That  points  the  hourly  goal. 

Onward !  nor  yet  to  the  right  hand, 

Nor  to  the  left  he  turns ; 
Allurement,  to  mislead  his  step, 

Or  hinder  him,  he  spurns. 

Your  way  is  barren  —  leave  the  track ; 
The  field-flowers  to  you  cry; 

0  no,  for  if  I  stray  for  flowers, 
A  losing  man  am  I. 

Your  travel  thirst  induces  ;  lo, 
The  sparkling,  ruby  bowl ! 

1  touch  not,  else  to  loss  of  race 

I  add  the  loss  of  soul. 

The  sun  rides  high ;  't  is  noontide  heat  — 

No  more  the  shadows  stalk ; 
0,  rest  thee — nay,  my  hour  is  come, 

And  I,  perforce,  must  walk. 

The  storm  is  up !  yon  ebon  cloud 

Is  edged  with  fiery  light ; 
The  thunder  speaks  —  stay !  no,  I  walk 

In  angry  tempest's  spite. 

Now,  while  the  worn-out  world  is  wrapt 
In  dreams,  thou  'It  surely  sleep ; 

The  veriest  slave  enjoys  it  —  no  ! 
I,  walking,  vigils  keep. 


(  320  ) 

Yet  sjuinber  shall  beguile  thee,  man, 
When  midnight  hath  thee  crossed ; 

No  !  for  I  hear  the  midnight  cry  : 
"  Wake !  wake !  or  all  is  lost ! " 

Thus  goes  he  on  the  beaten  way, 

Like  needle  to  the  pole ; 
And  steadily  pursues  the  path 

That  points  the  hourly  goal. 

A  thousand  miles  a  thousand  hours 

Must  witness  duly  past ; 
0,  wearily  the  index  moves  ; 

It  touches  "  twelve  "  at  last. 

And  this,  to  compass  treasures  ?  —  no ; 

A  fraction  of  the  dross 
Only  rewards  his  patient  toil, 

That  might  have  won  but  loss. 

A  paltry  silver  bribe  hath  power, 
Will,  love  and  sense  to  bind, 

And,  to  indomitable  pains, 
Task,  mightily,  a  Mind. 

Was  such  his  fading  prize,  for  which 

He  obstacles  put  down  ? 
My  soul !  what  hast  thou  done  for  thine 

Imperishable  crown? 


(324) 


MARY  ELLEN. 

Dr.  Parker  and  his  wife,  missionaries  to  China,  sailed  from  Boston,  Juno 
13,  1842,  for  Canton,  in  the  ship  Mary  Ellen.  They  received  a  free  passage 
from  the  owners.  Religious  services  were  performed  on  board,  in  presence 
of  a  large  number  of  friends,  who  had  collected  to  bid  them  farewell. 

I  praise  not  one  of  woman's  mould, 

Though  faultless  she  may  be,  — 
She 's  feminine,  and  yet  a  bold 

Sojourner  of  the  sea; 
She  holds  within  her  graceful  arms 

Those  who  depart  to  pray ; 
And,  every  step  revealing  charms, 

Goes  on  her  quiet  way. 

For  China !  —  takes  she  men  to  dip 
Their  hands  in  brothers  blood ? 

0  no !  this  is  the  Mission  Ship, 
And  these  are  sent  of  God. 

And  pleasant  is  it  to  believe 

That  shores  by  monsoons  kissed, 

And  pressed  by  pagans,  shall  receive 
The  good  Evangelist. 

1  hear  the  hymn,  I  join  the  prayer, 

And  watch  the  snowy  wings 
Which  Mary  Ellen  to  the  air, 

Like  some  swift  angel  flings. 
Hush,  now !  for  here 's  the  silent  grasp, 

Such  as  men  give  at  death ; 
And  here 's  affection's  straining  clasp, 

When  mingling  parting  breath. 


(325) 

How  beautifully  she  behaves ! 

She  tosses  off  the  spray 
As  coyly  as  the  bird  that  laves 

Its  plumage  in  the  bay. 
Gaze  ye !  for  starry  eyes  look  down 

From  battlements  of  bliss ; 
And  saints  forget  their  harp  and  crown 

To  look  on  sight  like  this. 

They  see,  too,  ships,  all  bristling  o'er 

With  implements  of  strife, 
That  seek  the  Asiatic  shore 

In  quest  of  human  life. 
They  look  on  her,  who  from  her  isle 

Commands  the  lawless  deep  ; 
If  such  in  scorn  can  smile,  they  smile, 

If  such  can  weep,  they  weep. 

Is 't  well,  Britannia !  war  to  wage 

On  unoffending  men, 
And  loose,  in  its  ungoverned  rage, 

Your  Lion  from  his  den  ? 
Is 't  godlike  to  promulge  decree 

At  kingly  Leadenhall, 
And  pagan  pride  subdue  to  ye 

By  bayonet  and  ball  ? 

Is 't  well,  a  realm  so  poor,  so  great, 
Whose  millions  beg  their  bread  — 

For  power  should  crush  a  foreign  state  ? 
For  plunder,  blood  should  shed  ? 

A  Christian  nation,  too,  whose  feet 
Have  proud  cathedrals  trod ;  — 

28 


(326) 

Your  pious  prayers  and  hymns,  how  sweet 
Their  incense  unto  God ! 

Ambition  whispers  in  your  ear, 

And  Mammon  lures  you  on ; 
Your  path  is  hell,  —  an  angel's  tear 

Blasts  every  laurel  won. 
Yet  go !  —  a  heartless  queen  and  court 

By  selfishness  must  rule, 
Till  terribly  is  lesson  taught 

In  Retribution's  school. 

0,  when  in  blood  you  Ve  washed  away 

Her  insult  to  your  throne, 
And  China,  humbled  to  your  sway, 

No  more  with  realms  is  known  — 
In  your  old  temples  chant  "  Amen ! " 

To  loud  Te  Deum  staves ;  — 
You  Ve  made  a  continent  of  men 

A  hemisphere  of  slaves.  * 

Sail  on !  sail  on !  O,  Mission  Bark ! 

The  church  is  still  at  sea ; 
Winds  roar,  waves  tumble,  skies  are  dark, 

And  strong  the  tempests  be. 
Yet  winds  and  waves  are  in  God's  fists, 

And  at  His  sovereign  will, 
He  chides  all  tumults  as  he  lists, 

And  storms  and  states  are  still. 

*  "  We  have  succeeded  in  enforcing  upon  China  that  immoral  trade,  for 
the  love  of  which  we  have  sacrificed  so  much  credit.  The  opium  traffic, 
we  are  told,  under  the  protection  of  British  guns,  goes  on  most  swimming- 
ly."—  London  Times, 


(327) 

On,  lovely  Mary  Ellen  !  —  fling 

Your  ribands  to  the  gale,  — 
He,  who  from  evil  good  can  bring, 

Is  with  you  as  you  sail. 
Seek  ocean's  depths,  and  ride  the  brink 

Of  billows,  as  you  may,  — 
For  kings  shall  reign,  and  thrones  shall  sink, 

As  rage  they,  or  obey. 


GOD    BLESS    THE    PURITAN! 

God  bless  the  Puritan ! 
New  England,  as  one  man, 

Its  parent  stock 
Blesses,  and  aye  will  bless 
The  exile  of  distress  — 
Of  wave  and  wilderness  — 

Of  Plymouth  Eock. 

God  bless  the  Puritan ! 
Whom  king  and  bishop's  ban 

Drove  to  this  shore ; 
Whose  prayers  for  Heaven's  grace 
Rose  in  the  tempest's  face, 
Whose  praises  swelled  the  bass 

Of  ocean's  roar. 

He,  when  old  despots  swayed 
Sceptre  in  Britain,  laid 

There,  broad  and  deep, 


(328) 

Foundation,  on  which  stands 
The  bulwark  of  all  lands, 
The  Liberty,  thy  hands, 
Creator !  keep. 

He,  in  this  western  clime, 
Example  to  all  time 

Gave,  of  true  law ; 
Confirmed  by  Nature's  light, 
Fixed  by  Man's  equal  right, 
And,  to  keen  Europe's  sight, 

Without  a  flaw. 

The  Puritan  is  dead ! 
His  venerable  head 

Pillows  below. 
His  grave  is  with  us  seen, 
'Neath  Summer's  gorgeous  green, 
And  Autumn's  golden  sheen, 

And  Winter's  snow. 

His  monument,  these  homes, 
These  city  spires  and  domes, 

These  hamlets  are ; 
Science  and  teeming  Art, 
And  being's  better  part, 
The  happy  human  heart  — 

His  deeds  declare. 

We  are  his  children  !  we 
Sprang  from  that  glorious  tree, 
Whose  healthful  root 


(329) 

The  frosts  and  heats  defied,  — 
Whose  trunk  towers  up  in  pride, 
Whose  branch  shoots  far  and  wide, 
We  are  the  fruit. 

Better  than  mines  of  gold, 
The  legacy  of  old, 

Which  he  has  given. 
The  birthright  of  the  Free 
To  children's  children,  we 
Bequeath,  so  may  they  be 

Favorites  of  Heaven ! 

Who  to  himself  takes  shame, 
Scorning  that  stern  old  name, 

Let  him  depart ! 
Name,  monarchs  may  not  bear, 
Name,  nobles  may  not  share, 
Exultingly  we  wear, 

Linked  to  the  heart. 

God  bless  the  Puritan ! 
Shall  not  the  world  of  man 

Echo  the  cry  ? 
Yes,  and  his  name  shall  spread, 
While  Truth,  he  from  the  dead 
Exalted,  lifts  its  head, 

Never  to  die  ! 


28* 


(330) 


ALL'S   WELL. 

Sung  at  the  Anniversary  of  the  Boston  Seamen's  Friend  Society,  in 
Park  Street  Church ;  May  31,  1843. 

"  All  *s  Well ! "  the  gangway  sentry  cries  ; 

Her  course  she  nobly  keeps, 
And  through  the  scud  the  good  Ship  flies, 

The  beauty  of  the  Deeps. 
He  knows  not  that  Remorse  is  loud, 

As  silent  midnight  wanes ; 
And  one  poor  wakeful  wretch  is  bowed 

By  anguish  in  the  chains. 

"  All 's  Well ! "— to  mock  that  cheerful  cry, 

Comes  wailing  on  the  wind 
A  groan,  a  sob,  a  stifled  sigh, 

That  speak  a  troubled  mind. 
He  knows  not  that  of  all,  'midships, 

The  boldest  at  the  gun, 
A  tar  is  struck,  and  quivering  lips 

Proclaim  a  soul  undone. 


"All's  Well!  All's  Well!"  the  sentry  sings, 

The  good  Ship,  trim  and  tight, 
In  snowy  flakes  the  foam-wreath  flings 

Along  her  path  of  light. 
He  knows  not  that  the  brighter  ray 

Of  Love  that  never  wanes, 
Has  chased  his  night  of  sin  away, 

Who  knelt  amid  the  chains ! 


9 

(331) 


MY   MOTHER. 

This  Book,  my  Mother  !  was  designed  for  thee  ;  — 

Of  fair  exterior ;  type,  distinct  and  free ; 

That,  gratefully,  thine  aged  eyes  might  dwell 

On  themes  that  pleased  thy  absent  child  so  well. 

Time,  in  his  flight,  beholds  my  labor  done, 

And  thine,  too,  ended  —  thy  glad  rest  begun. 

Another  Volume  is  to  thee  unrolled ; 

By  Angel  hands  is  oped  the  page  of  gold 

Whose  characters  are  stars  of  living  light, 

Which  thou  wilt  read  with  ever  new  delight ; 

For  never  tires  the  Poetry  above, 

Whose  theme,  exhaustless,  is  Exhaustless  Love. 

I've  lost  a  want  when  asking  at  the  throne  ; 

Blest  are  the  wants  that  daily  God  supplies 

When  from  the  heart  petitions  daily  rise !  — 

In  all  my  suit  thy  constant  name  was  known, 

With  some  fond  thought,  that  virtue,  pure  as  thine, 

Had  power  with  Him  for  follies  great  as  mine  ; 

If  wrong,  forgive  me,  Heaven!  —  I've  lost  thy  prayers  ; 

In  all  my  joys  and  ever  present  cares 

The  dear  belief  still  gave  my  heart  repose 

That  for  its  peace  thy  supplications  rose. 

Such  prayers  are  treasures  of  a  Mother's  love, 

Enjoyed  on  earth,  yet  safely  stored  above ; 

And,  like  her  influence,  silent,  deep  and  wide, 

Still  flowing  onward  in  perpetual  tide. 

To  such  rich  streams  are  not  the  children  heirs, 

When  parents  pass  to  where  the  Fountain  flows  ? 

From  such  bequest,  laid  up  for  me  in  Heaven, 

Shall  not,  oh  Mother,  yet  supplies  be  given !  1846. 


(332) 


NOTES. 


Note  1.    "  There  is  an  hour  of  -peaceful  rest."    Page  1. 

This  hymn  was  written  by  me,  in  Philadelphia,  in  the  summer  of  1818,  for  the 
Franklin  Gazette,  edited  by  Richard  Bache,  Esq.,  and  was  introduced  by  him  to  the 
public  in  terms  sufficiently  nattering  to  a  young  man  who  then  certainly  lacked  confi- 
dence in  himself.  The  piece  was  republished  in  England  and  on  the  continent,  in 
various  newspapers  and  magazines,  and  was  also  extensively  circulated  in  my  own 
native  land,  where  it  has  found  a  place  in  several  Hymn  and  Music  Books.  It  was 
published  in  my  first  volume  of  Poems,  at  Philadelphia,  in  1819,  and  soon  after,  was  set 
to  music  by  A.  P.  Heinrich,  Esq.,  in  the  same  city.  I  have  said  this  much,  because 
the  hymn  has  been  claimed  by  several  writers  in  both  hemispheres  ;  and  has  appeared 
with  various  names  and  signatures  affixed. 


Note  2.    u  The  Ivory  Crucifx."    Page  317. 

Referring  to  a  remarkable  statue  of  Christ  on  the  Cross,  carved  from  an  im- 
mense block  of  ivory,  by  a  Genoese  Monk,  in  the  convent  of  St.  Nicholas.  This  is 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  perfect  specimens  of  sculpture  in  the  world,  and  conveys  I 
to  the  mind  such  an  idea  of  the  Saviour  as  every  one  would  wish  to  receive  and  cherish. 
Aside  from  its  intrinsic  merit,  as  a  work  of  art,  this  statue  is  a  wonderful  evidence  of 
genius  impelled  by  religious  enthusiasm.  It  is  known  to  be  the  first  effort  of  the  Artist 
Monk,  who  considered  himself  divinely  inspired  to  execute  his  undertaking.  This 
superstition  is  of  course  rejected;  but  the  statue  itself,  with  the  circumstances  of 
its  history,  may  be  considered  as  one  of  the  most  singular  combinations  ever  wrought 
by  mere  human  agency. 


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